Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1: Arrival

**Little Swimmers  
><strong>A somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

**A/N:** This story got its start when cold temps, short days, and more than a month straight of overcast skies had me bouncing against the walls (how do you folks in Portland and Seattle deal with this crap?), and gave me a serious hankering for some fluffy escapist travel porn [As defined by the Daily Mail (27 Nov, 2014 on-line edition): _"Britons spend three hours EACH DAY indulging in 'travel porn' as they fantasise about their next holiday ... with Barbados the most longed-for destination."]_ And it's almost obligatory for HP fanfic writers who mostly ship harmony to do a "Hermione retrieves her parents" story. Whip those two together, throw in some brainstorming for B4B (where Arthur Weasley is currently on his way to Oz), and there you go. Although the funny thing is that the parent retrieving turned out to be more of a plot device employed to get the Golden Trio Down Under.

I'll try not to annoy my Australian readers by joking that their national anthem is "Waltzing Matilda," (like I did in Muggle Summer), or by laying on the Crocodile Dundee accents extra-thick. I'm also pushing the entire canon timeline forward to contemporary times, which keeps me from having to take the time to go back and figure out what technology was locally available and which hotels or hostels were opened back in 1998. Sticklers for the canon timeline are politely directed towards my pen name. The technology shouldn't impact the story all that much. Exchange rates in July 2014 were roughly 1GBP=1.80 AUD, and 1USD=1.05AUD.

Big thanks to Alix33 for sharing thoughts on the concept and for proofing this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**oo00OO00oo**

**Chapter 1  
><strong>_  
>Taxing Down Runway 16<br>Melbourne Airport, Australia_

When it came to chewing on lower lips, Harry Potter knew the difference between worry and reflexive habit…even when he could only see those lips within the reflection of a passenger jet's window.

He reached across the empty middle seat, covered his best-friend's hand with his own, and for the ninth time over their twenty-two hour long trip said, "It's going to be okay, Hermione."

The bushy-haired Muggleborn turned towards Harry and tried to turn her lip-chewing into a brave smile as a flight attendant brought the airplane's intercom system to life.

"_On behalf of Air India and the crew of Flight 302, I would like to welcome all of you to Melbourne. Please remain in your seats while the airplane taxis to the terminal, and continue to keep your seat belts fastened until the seat belt sign is turned off." _

Hermione shook her head in disbelief as several dozen other passengers completely ignored the flight attendant's instructions and rushed to unbuckle and retrieve their belongings from the overhead compartments.

"I can't believe these people," she said with a scowl.

Harry shrugged as queues quickly took shape down the length of both aisles within the economy section.

"So do you think the pilot will accidentally on-purpose slam the brakes again, like he did in Sydney?"

"It would serve them right if he did," Hermione replied.

The-Boy-Who-Won nodded across the aisle, towards the red-haired passenger who had managed to sleep through the landing.

"Should I wake Sleeping Beauty?" he asked.

Hermione giggled and shook her head. "No, let him rest…even with a half-empty cabin we're still probably looking at thirty or forty minutes to deplane."

"_Deplane_," Harry mimicked. "What kind of made up word is that? It's not like I 'debroom' at the end of a Quidditch match, is it?"

"Shush!" Hermione whispered. "I strongly suspect that the Statute of Secrets still applies Down Under."

"Alright," Harry said (with his eyes rolling). He then pointed towards the incoming passenger card that was peeking out of Ron's seat pocket and asked, "Do you want to check if he needs to revise?"

"No, that's alright, the flight attendant gave me a few extra," Hermione said. "Merlin knows…I mean _Lord_ knows...we'll have enough time to revise as we wait to clear customs."

There was a lull in the conversation, as the flight attendant used the intercom system to scold the standing passengers. Not talking allowed Hermione to mull, and mulling allowed her to worry. Harry responded to the worry with another squeeze of her hand.

"They will understand," he insisted. "They'll have to, once you show them those pictures of their burned-out house and surgery."

"But…what kind of daughter am I, to make her parents forget that they even had a daughter?"

"The kind of daughter who did what she thought needed to be done to save her parents' lives," said Harry. "The kind of daughter who did what was necessary to give her father the chance to walk his daughter down the aisle, or give her mother the chance to someday dote on her grandchildren."

Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Wedding aisles and grandchildren, Harry?" she asked. "Are you trying to rush something along?"

The seventeen-year old wizard reflexively glanced across the aisle towards one friend, then turned back towards another and shook his head.

"Obviously not...at least not on my end, right?" he asked.

A tear threatened to form in the corner of his best friend's eye. She pulled her hand out from under his, and gave his hand a firm squeeze.

"I'm sorry," Hermione insisted.

The teen-aged wizard shook his head and insisted that there was no need for apologies and that they were treading on recently trodden ground as the airplane reached the gate. The very abrupt stop sent the standing passengers sprawling, and brought a vindictive smile to the head flight attendant's lips. It also finally woke the third member of "The Golden Trio." Ron stretched his arms and twisted his back one way then the other. The "other" twist brought Harry's covered hand into view.

He scowled. Hermione noted the scowl and slowly drew back her hand, trying not to make it seem as if she had been caught reaching for the biscuit jar.

"So are we there yet?" the red-haired wizard asked (with a rather snippy tone of voice).

"Yes, Ronald," Hermione said with a long sigh. "We're finally there."

**oo00OO00oo**

Ron Weasley's attitude only worsened once they finally got off the airplane and followed the signs that pointed towards the end of a very long queue.

"Remind me why we couldn't use a portkey or something to get here?" he whined, dropping his Muggle rucksack to the ground with a loud thump.

"Shush!" Hermione hissed. She lowered her voice to a whisper, and added, "You know very well that the Ministry is still a mess, and that the international portkey interdiction still hasn't been lifted."

"But Kingsley said it would only be a few more weeks…"

"Nobody forced you to make this trip, Ron," said Harry.

"Right," his friend snapped. He ran his fingers through his red hair, then waved with disgust at the long queue in front of them. "This wouldn't be so bad if you had woken me up before that bloody queue formed on the airplane."

"It wouldn't have mattered, since we were still required to sit while the plane was in motion," Hermione shot back.

"So how long, do you think?"

Harry craned his neck for a better view of the entry control point.

"Thirty or forty meters?" he quipped.

"You know what I mean!" Ron whined. "All they served on that last part of the trip were those spicy peanuts, and I'm starving!"

"It was only a ninety minute flight from Sydney," Hermione countered. "How many times did they feed us on the flight from India? Or on the first leg from Heathrow to Delhi?"

"And don't forget the pound of duty-free chocolates you scarfed down while we sat on the tarmac," Harry added.

"But it has to at least be lunch time by now?" asked Ron.

Harry shook his head. "No time changes during that last leg, Mate. It's only 9:45."

"Yeah, but my stomach is still on real time…probably dinner back home, right?"

Hermione pinched her nose and sighed. "It's closer to midnight, actually."

"Still hungry," Ron muttered.

Ron impatience was seemingly rewarded when two persons wearing the uniform of the Australian Customs and Border Protection Service approached the British teenagers.

"G'day, everyone," the dark-skinned male said. "If you three would like to follow us, we can get you sorted out straight away."

Catching the sour looks of the people lined up in front of them, Hermione grabbed hold of Ron's arm. Harry understood her reaction, and agreed with the underlying sentiment.

"Thank you for the offer, Officer…Billy?" he half-asked (not knowing whether the name on the man's badge was a first name or surname). "But we don't require any special treatment. We're happy to wait our turn in line."

"Oh, no," said Officer Billy. "_Special_ people who can do _special_ things deserve _special_ considerations."

"Yes, we insist," said Officer Billy's partner. The tan female whose blond hair was tied up under her blue cap placed herself between the three teens and the other arriving passengers, and guided them away from the queue. Once there were a few feet of separation, she pulled on the end of one of her short shirt sleeves, and revealed the hidden butt end of a white mahogany wand.

"Sounds good to me," said Ron, as he hefted his rucksack onto his shoulder.

Harry proved that he wasn't nearly as eager to accept the invitation at face value when he took a few steps to the side and slipped his right hand behind his back. A breath caught in Hermione's throat as the two uniformed officers quietly shifted into defensive stances. She quickly closed the wand-waving distance that her friend had created for himself and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Take a deep breath, Harry," she whispered. "We're on the other side of the world now."

Her best friend's lips thinned. "These two behind you," he calmly stated. "Cleaning guy on your nine, and two more, I think on my six. Check the window."

"You're barmy, Mate," their friend scoffed dismissively.

Hermione looked back over her shoulder and hissed, "Teaspoons, Ron!" Then she returned her focus to Harry, and said, "The Snatchers were never this subtle…our hosts are probably just being cautious."

Her touch deflated some of the air out of his apprehension. He glanced over her shoulder towards the uniformed male and asked, "Are we in trouble, or something, Officer Billy?"

"Not at all, Mate," the Australian replied. "We'd just like to move this conversation to a more…_special_…location where we can speak more freely."

The black-haired teen thought for a moment, then shrugged as he reached for his rucksack with his free hand. "Alright, then," he decided.

"Excellent," the female officer declared, allowing the three teens to follow her partner's lead towards the other side of the hall. This gave her a chance to address the concerns of those who still found themselves at the back of the queue.

"What makes them so special?" one of the arriving passengers asked.

The Border Patrol officer gave the upset man a good look-over, devoting most of her attention to his suspiciously over-stuffed bag of duty-free goods.

"Are you a special arrival, Sir?" she asked politely. "The kind of special arrival that deserves extra special attention and extra special scrutiny of their declared customs limits? Because that certainly can be arranged."

The disgruntled man's face paled, and he was quick to claim that he was just a normal guy with normal needs that was more than happy to stand in the normal queue.

**oo00OO00oo**

Harry and Hermione's assumption that they had been greeted by Australian Aurors in disguise was briefly tested when Officer Billy opened a locked door by swiping his identification card through a wall-mounted electronic reader. But then he quickly erased any doubts (about his magical status, if not his employer) when he drew out his wand just as soon as the door closed behind them.

"Easy on, Mr. Potter!" the border patrol officer coolly stated.

"Waz'at?" Ron asked.

"My partner is suggesting that everyone calm down," a voice called out from behind.

"Shite," Harry hissed, having realized that the witch dressed as a Border Patrol officer had silently gotten the drop on him.

"Relax, Mr. Potter," the male officer said, "This isn't some kind of trap. We're just an all-magical team that works for the government's border patrol service. Now if you all would slowly place your wands and passports on the table in front of you?"

Harry frowned. "I don't believe that we ever introduced ourselves to you, Officer Billy…if that's your real name and real uniform?"

"Oh yes, that's my real name, and this is my real uniform," the older wizard stated. "That's Officer Davis behind you, by the way, dressed in her real uniform as well."

"How did you know our names?" Ron asked, as he placed his wand on the table, then fished his passport out of a trouser pocket.

"We checked the passenger list, Mr. Weasley," the male officer explained. He waited until Harry and Hermione had surrendered their wands and passports before he lowered his wand and explained further.

"The Indian authorities gave us a ring, right after they spotted you coming off the flight from London," Billy noted. "They were all set to detain you three, before we reminded them that the international arrest warrants for Undesirable Numbers 1 and 2 had recently been rescinded."

"Nobody cared about catching Number 3?" Ron whined.

The officer turned towards the red-haired wizard, shook his head, and said, "Afraid not." Then he picked up the passport that Ron had placed on the table and opened the cover.

"Standard Muggle-issued passport, issued on your departure date?" he asked. "Is this legitimate, or a good-enough magical forgery?"

"It's legitimate, Sir," Hermione quickly replied. "Although, fair to say that someone at our Ministry had a hand in convincing the Muggle authorities to expedite his application."

"Same with mine," Harry said, as he twisted his head to the side. "Do I still need your wand tip near my ear, Officer Davis?"

"I suppose not," the female officer replied, as she lowered her wand and joined her partner on the far side of the table. She picked up Harry's passport, comparing the messy black hair in the passport photo to the messy black hair on Harry's head.

"My passport is older, at least," Hermione offered.

"It would have to be, wouldn't it?" the male wizard asked, as he opened her passport to the inside front page, then entered some data into a hand-held device that appeared to be far more electronic than magical.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked.

The wizard looked up towards the teen-aged witch and said, "You would have had a hard time visiting Australia last year without a passport."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked. "This is my first trip to Australia."

Officer Billy frowned. "Not according to our records," he stated. The frown grew when he flipped through the endorsements section of Hermione's passport and failed to spot any Australia-specific stamps. A wave of his wand over the passport didn't resolve the issue.

"Hmmmph," he muttered. He handed Hermione's passport to his partner, who repeated the diagnostic scan and got the same result.

"Your passport hasn't been altered, as far as we can tell," Officer Davis told Hermione. "The last entry stamp is French, from three years ago."

"That sounds right," the younger witch agreed. "I went on holiday with my parents."

"Strange," the officer decided. "I suppose that the problem could be on our end."

"When do your records say she traveled here?" Harry asked.

"Last June," the wizard replied.

"Hey, Hermione…isn't that about the time your parents came here after you obli…" Ron asked (ending in mid-sentence when he came under the full force of her death glare.)

"Yes, Ron…that is right around the time that my parents decided to emigrate here."

The male border patrol official arched his eyebrow.

"What are your parents' names, Miss Granger?"

"Monica and Wendell Wilkins," she quickly replied.

"Really?" the official asked, as he entered those names into his hand-held device. The skeptical wizard stared at the device's screen for a few seconds, then shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't have any entry records for anyone traveling together under those names over the past five years."

"They're Muggles," Hermione explained.

"We don't differentiate at the border, Miss Granger," the male officer said testily. "And we don't think too much of that epithet, either."

But that's…"

Harry quickly slipped his arm around Hermione's shoulder and tried to steer the conversation away from potential trouble.

"So, are we allowed to enter the country, Officer Billy?" he asked.

The Australian wizard slowly nodded. "Few things to clear up, first. After the customs check you'll need to watch a video, and Mr. Weasley and you will need to visit a healer for a required vaccination."

His partner added, "While you're there, it might also be worth Miss Granger asking about potential memory damage."

Ron groaned. "Is all that going to take a while?"

Officer Billy shrugged. "The video is fifteen minutes long…you'll probably spend an hour or so getting your shots…is anyone waiting for you in the Arrival Hall?"

"No, Sir," Hermione replied. "I think Ron's just eager to sample the local cuisine."

"Really?" the officer asked with a grin. "I've got a jar of Vegemite back at my desk."

His partner snorted. "Let's ease these kids into that experience, shall we?"

"Ah, right then…there's a Nando's right across from the baggage retrieval area," the wizard stated. "We could swing by there for some take-away that you can eat while you watch the video."

"Thanks," said Ron.

Officer Billy glanced down at his hand-held device and asked, "So nobody is waiting for you…is there a local witch or wizard who is hosting your visit?"

"No, Sir."

"Here on business?"

"No, Sir," said Hermione. "We're here on holiday."

"On holiday?" the official asked. "You do know it's wintertime down here, right?"

"Well…yes, but we were rather busy during your summer, so…"

"Where will you be staying, then?"

The three teens looked at each other.

"Erm…the Nunnery?" said Hermione.

The male wizard chuckled. "Are you asking me that or telling me that?"

"Are we really staying at a nunnery?" Harry quietly asked.

"It's a hostel," Hermione said with a sigh. "Highly recommended in the tour guide that I purchased at Heathrow."

"I know the place," the female officer stated. "Popular with backpackers."

"There you go," Harry concluded, gesturing towards his rucksack.

"So you plan on visiting non-magical areas during your holiday, then?" the older wizard asked.

"Is there a problem with that?" Hermione asked.

"Not at the moment," the Australian replied. "But there might be if you're going to be traveling about on your own and don't keep us updated with your location…they'll talk about that in the video."

Officer Billy then asked for the incoming passenger cards that they had filled out while on the airplane. They were a bit shocked when he tossed the completed forms into a rubbish bin.

"But…?" Ron asked.

"There's an expanded form for visiting witches and wizards," the official explained. "Did any of you check a bag?"

"No, Sir…just these carry-ons," Hermione replied, gesturing towards the three modestly-sized rucksacks.

"_Just_ those carry-ons?" his partner skeptically asked. "No magically-shrunk down trunks or mokeskin pouches in your pockets?"

The nervous looks that the three teens gave each other revealed the truth well enough.

Officer Billy chuckled. "Look, kids," he said, "it's not against the law for a witch or wizard to want to avoid paying excess weight charges or pay for extra bags. And you'd be barmy if you actually chose to check your bags and run the risk that they wouldn't show up in the baggage retrieval hall."

His partner nodded, and added, "But it is illegal for a witch or wizard to try to sneak their magical luggage or most anything else that is magical through customs without first declaring it."

"Ah, so…do we do that here?" Ron asked.

"That's the idea," the wizard replied. "Lay out everything that's magical into separate piles on the table." He then pointed towards his hand-held device and added, "While Officer Davis sorts through those piles, I'll wave this scanner around your bodies as a manual search for any residual magic. You'll be able to stay dressed…the scanner will discount things like temperature-control charms on your shirts, or deodorant charms on your shorts…"

"Why would you need to deodorize your shorts?" Ron asked.

"Are you kidding?" Harry asked. "Definitely sounds like something that I'm adding to your Christmas list."

"So, everything in a pile except for charmed clothing, then?" Hermione asked.

Officer Billy shook his head.

"We've pre-identified as false positives some of the more…intimate…pieces of magic that someone might be reluctant to place on the table."

"Like what kind of intimate?" asked Ron.

Officer Davis tried not to grin as she rattled off the start of a long list.

"Things like charmed ben-wa balls, vibrating nipple rings, magical intrauterine devices..."

"Intra-what?"

"Never mind, Ronald," Hermione said with a blush. She then changed subjects and asked the female officer, "Are there any restrictions on bringing potions into the country?"

"Depends on the potion and on the volumes," the older witch replied. "Medically-necessary potions are allowed, so long as they're accompanied by an authorized prescription."

"Oh, bugger," Harry muttered under his breath.

"Something wrong?" the male officer asked.

"We've…at least I…have always gotten my potions and my medical care provided by the school nurse," Harry explained. "She never wrote out a prescription that I'd then take to a chemist…or a potions shop, for that matter."

"Yeah, we've run into that with some other European arrivals," said the official. He then asked, "Is it safe to assume that your Ministry didn't provide you with a list of what can and can't be transported across magical borders?"

"Yes, Sir," Hermione replied. "I also didn't have any luck finding a magical version of the Australian High Commission."

"That's because there isn't one," the Australian witch stated. "We don't have separate governments and separate embassies like you have in Britain."

"Really?" asked Hermione. "How do you keep the wizarding world secret, then?" she asked.

"That's something else they'll talk about in the video," Officer Billy stated.

Officer Davis pulled her partner back for a short whispered conversation. He arched an eyebrow, then shrugged and nodded his head. When they returned to the table, the blonde witch said, "We really shouldn't be doing this, but…"

A wave of her wand placed three identical pieces of parchment on the desk in front of the three teenagers.

"These are lists of banned magical items, as well as the things that are allowed in specific quantities if they are declared," the witch said. The official then picked up a metal trash can, and added, "This is a magical rubbish bin that will empty itself when you place your wand tip against its side and say the magic word '_empty_'."

"We are now going to step out for the next ten minutes," Officer Billy stated. "That should give you plenty of time to dispose of any questionable items currently within your possession. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir," Harry replied. "We understand."

"Yes, thank you for your help and for your understanding of our situation," Hermione added.

Ron just nodded.

**oo00OO00oo**

Ron was a lot more vocal a few minutes after the border patrol officers stepped outside of the room.

"Can you believe that we have to do this?" he whined, as he pulled a Fanged Frisbee out of his expandable trunk. Scanning down the customs declaration list, he asked, "Does this qualify as a _potentially injurious object_?"

"Of course it does," Hermione replied. "Why did you bring that along in the first place?"

"Something to toss around when we got bored?" he asked.

Harry kicked the rubbish bin towards Ron and said, "One last toss, then…make it a good one."

Ron swore under his breath as he dropped the wheeze into the bin. "Why can't they just hold on to this stuff for us, and give them back when we return to England?"

"You're really expecting them to store items that they consider to be illegal for us to possess?" Hermione asked. She adopted a sarcastic tone of voice and added, _"Oh, Officer Billy, I don't want to __**bring**__ this pound of heroin into your country…I just want you to hold it for me until I'm ready to leave."_

"What's heroin?" Ron asked.

"One of the illegal drugs on your list," Harry replied.

"This list is ridiculous," Ron whined. "It's almost as bad as Filch's!"

"With good reason, in some cases," Hermione snapped back. She turned towards her other friend and glanced with sympathy at the growing discard pile in front of him.

"None of those potions were properly labeled?" she asked.

Harry shook his head. "Never really needed labels, for the most part. Each one has a fairly unique bottle size or color, and if that wasn't enough, they each smell awful in a distinctly awful way."

"Let me at least write down what they are, and what you needed them for," Hermione said. "It might help once we find a local healer to resupply you."

"I'm already doing that," Harry noted.

"_Empty!_" Ron shouted.

The other two quickly turned towards him.

"What?" the red-haired wizard protested. He set the now empty rubbish bin back down onto the floor and added, "Just doing what he told us to do."

"You didn't have to shout," Harry noted.

"And what, exactly, were you binning?" added Hermione.

"Erm the Frisbee, and some other…things…"

"Oh, come on, Ron," said Harry. "I saw you toss a few potion bottles. It's not like we didn't already know about the fart potions."

"What?" asked Ron. "It wasn't…well, actually… that." The red-haired teen shook his head and asked, "So what do you think will be cheaper? Visiting an Aussie healer for a new potion, or buying a pair of those charmed shorts that Billy bloke was talking about?"

"I think that the situation definitely calls for redundancy," Hermione said with a grin.

"What's that?"

"She's suggesting that you need both the anti-flatulence potions _and_ the odor-eating shorts," Harry explained. "And I'm buying."

"Oh," said Ron. "Well alright, then."

**oo00OO00oo**

Not having packed any Dark objects and being fairly aggressive when it came to pitching anything that might create trouble made the subsequent customs inspection and magical scan straight forward and relatively painless. The female officer stayed in the room as the three teenagers repacked their trunks, pouches, and pockets, and volunteered some ideas on magical points of interest that wouldn't be listed in Hermione's Muggle travel guide. Once they were set to go, Agent Davis opened a different locked door that led directly into the Arrival Hall. She pointed towards the currency exchange, only to learn that Harry and Hermione had already converted galleons into Australian dollars back in London. By that point, Ron had already queued up for some take-away.

As Ron quizzed Agent Davis about the menu, asking things like what in Merlin's name "peri-peri" sauce, Harry and Hermione, watched their fellow passengers trickle out of the secured area. Dozens of people were waiting on the near side, carrying bouquets of flowers and handmade cardboard signs. Some of these people impatiently glanced at the arrivals board, wondering whether there was enough time to buy yet another coffee. Others kept their eyes glued to the sliding glass door, convinced that it would be their friend, or lover, or grandchild who would be the next one through.

What upset Hermione the most about this scene was the sequence of emotions displayed on the faces of those who were arriving. The initial relief that they'd finally cleared customs, quickly followed by the uncertainty of whether their ride would still be there waiting for them. Then it was the combination of surprise and joy, as they either recognized a friendly face within the crowd, or heard their names called out at ear-splitting volumes. Then smiles grew wide, bags were dropped, and they willingly fell into the embrace of reunited friends and loved ones.

It was hell for Hermione, as she feared that it literally would be the customized hell that would be waiting for her…instead of a sulfur-fumed, orange-flamed cavern, she would be chained-down and forced to watch an eternal stream of joy-filled reunions within an airport arrival hall.

Harry, who had been gathering his own wool as he watched a child being held in her grandmother's arms for the first time, once again rescued his friend from her funk. He leaned towards her ear and whispered, "Hey, Hermione…how much do you want to bet that your reunion is just as happy?"

The teen-aged witch shook her head and scoffed at the idea.

"No, really," said Harry. "I'll bet you!"

A smile threatened to force itself upon Hermione's lips as she glanced back over her shoulder towards Ron. With his complete focus still on the menu board, she leaned her head towards Harry's and placed her lips close to his ear.

"If you can guarantee me that kind of happy reunion," she whispered, "I'll spend a day with you at the beach, and sunbathe nude!"

A breath caught in Harry's throat.

"Well, let's see," he whispered back. "I can't guarantee it, but it sure sounds like a fun bet…I suppose that if I lose, then I have to be the one that's on the beach naked?"

Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head. "No…you'll just have to wear a pair of skimpy Speedos that I get to pick out."

"Oh, well that doesn't seem like a fair bet," Harry quipped.

"Did I mention that it's going to be a deserted beach if I lose, and a crowded public beach if I win?"

"Hmmm…no, you didn't," Harry whispered. He glanced back over his shoulder towards a still preoccupied Ron, then turned to his best friend and asked, "Just the two of us, then?"

Hermione rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Harry…his head would explode if I lost."

"Which one?"

Now that they were at the head of the order line, Hermione's response was limited to extending out her hand and asking, "Bet?"

Harry smiled, then (after glancing over his shoulder to ensure that Ron was still focused on the menu board) nodded in agreement and gave his best friend's hand a good squeeze.

Chicken burgers, wraps, and drinks were ordered, paid for, and presented in short order. Harry and Hermione weren't all that hungry, but it was close enough to lunch hour, and they wanted to get their stomachs adjusted to the local time.

Officer Davis took the three teens and their take-away back through a different doorway, and into the border patrol's staff area. After a few twists and turns down different hallways, they entered a small, glass-walled conference room. The Australian witch gestured towards the elongate wooden desk and office chairs, and invited the three teenagers to sit while she set up the presentation.

There was a large flat-screen television mounted against one of the two shorter, solid walls, with cords leading from the back of the screen down towards a cabinet of electronic video equipment. Officer Davis picked up a black remote control, pointed it towards the cabinet, and began pushing buttons.

"Hey, Hermione?" Ron asked. "How is this supposed to work?"

The Muggleborn witch spun around in the ergonomic office chair and sighed. Her magic-born friend had an unwrapped drinking straw in one hand, and a carbonated fountain drink in the other.

"Watch, and remember," she told Ron, as she pushed the plastic straw free of its paper. Pointing towards the incised "X" within the plastic cup cover, she stabbed the straw into the fizzy liquid and declared, "There will be a test."

Harry laughed as he unwrapped his chicken sandwich. "He'll score nothing less than "O's," so long as the test involves gaining access to food and drink."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ron replied. He took a long sip from his drink, and then asked, "Is it still 'Make Fun of Ron Day' after we skipped all those time zones?"

Some not-quite-under-the-breath swearing from Officer Davis's lips turned their focus towards the Australian witch; thirty seconds of effort had failed to produce anything more than menus and language options on the blue screen video display.

"Sorry," she muttered.

"No worries," said Harry (making a bit of effort to speak locally).

Hermione giggled. "Speaking of tests to see if witches and wizards can blend into the Muggle world…"

"Can you imagine?" Agent Davis said with a sigh. "Not just for magicals, but if we tested everyone on arrival? Ah…here we go."

The Border Patrol officer told the three teens that she was going to step out during the presentation, but would return at the end. Then she pressed "Play," and left the room.

The video started with an introduction by two men: a burly, light-skinned man wearing a Muggle two-piece suit, and a much older, darker-skinned man with a long white hair and a white beard that would have had Dumbledore nodding in approval. That this man stood in front of the National Flag of Australia, while the other was in front of the Australian Aboriginal Flag, was a clue (at least to Hermione) that the presentation might be rather topsy-turvy.

"G'day, my name Harold Milfoil," said the man wearing the suit. "I am a wand-wielding honourable Member of Parliament, for Mallee, New South Wales. On behalf of the Australian government, I'd like to welcome you to our great country."

"My name is Geoff Mundine," the other man stated. "I am a wand-wielding Elder of the Gumatj clan of the Yolngu people. I extend my welcome on behalf of all of the Aboriginal peoples of Australia and the Torres Strait Islands."

The first wizard said, "The purpose of this video is to explain how the witches and wizards of Australia and the Torres Strait Islands go about meeting their obligations under the International Statute of Secrecy. It is important that you pay attention to the presented information, since you will be expected to comply with all local laws and magical practices during your visit."

"The fact that we are using electronic cameras to record this presentation about local magical practices might be your first clue that we go about things differently here," said the darker-skinned wizard. "At least when compared to many other parts of the world."

The burlier wizard nodded in agreement. "And if that wasn't enough, I am proud to note that I represent both magical and non-magical residents within my district. Moreover, I am currently the Shadow Minister for Magic, and a member of the Prime Minister's Cabinet."

"He is the Shadow Minister for Magic, even though he belongs to the majority party, because it is a secret position," the other man noted. He smiled, then added, "A different wizard holds that position within the minority party's shadow cabinet, which makes him the Shadow Shadow Minister for Magic."

"These internal politics aren't important for the foreign witch or wizard who is visiting our country," the first wizard declared. "The key point here is that Australia does not have stand-alone magical governments at the federal, state, or local levels. As Minister for Magic, I am the highest-ranking wizard within our federal government. And yet, I am but one minister within the cabinet, and I serve at the pleasure of a Prime Minister that lacks any magical abilities."

"A fact that is proven to every Australian on a fairly regular basis," the Aboriginal wizard quipped.

The Shadow Minister frowned.

"We will be removing that editorial comment from the final video presentation, right?" he asked.

"Of course we will," the grinning wizard replied, before turning towards the camera and giving them a big wink.

The governmental wizard nodded, cleared his throat, and said, "Right,then. Moving on…"

**oo00OO00oo**

The main part of the video presentation was a historical accounting of Australia's "One House" philosophy of co-existence that was central to magical Australia's laws and customs. It was essentially an extension of the practices and policies that were already in place when a small delegation of Aboriginal magic users journeyed to Paris to sign the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689 (their week-long series of apparition jumps occurring almost a century before the First Fleet of eleven Muggle ships took thirty-six weeks to make the reverse trip from Portsmouth to Botany Bay). Instead of forming magical communities that were isolated from the non-magical majority (to every extent possible), magic-wielding Aboriginals continued to live within their tribal communities (secreting the use of magic, rather than the magic user).

The first European witches and wizards who chose to make a life for themselves within Australia were quick to adopt this differing approach to the enforcement of the International Statute of Secrecy. They simply didn't have the numbers to go it alone and live apart from the other new arrivals. And neither they nor their magical brethren within the indigenous communities had any interest in joining forces to build a stand-alone magical society. And so the "One House" analogy was born…rather than have magical and non-magical families build separate houses next door to each other, the two families shared one big house that had separate bedrooms. The magical residents of this house would, for the most part, restrict their wand waving to the privacy of their own bedroom. The majority of their time would be spent in the shared common areas, where they would wash the dishes, and dust the sitting room the same way that their "normal" housemates would do those tasks. Magic use wasn't banned in these common areas, but you had to be really, really discrete about its use (to keep up the analogy, you could use magic to scrub the shared toilet, so long as the lavatory door was closed).

Taking a "One House" approach meant doing things mostly the way that the non-magical majority did them. Australian witches and wizards had their own floo network, but were just as likely to use a Muggle tram, or own a private car. Magical children advanced through the same educational system that everybody else did, and received their magical training through summer camps, after-school tutoring, and full-time post-secondary instruction. Magical Australia didn't have a separate currency or a separate banking system, or (as mentioned in the introduction) even a separate government. The only truly magical habitation was a government-financed gated senior community, where wizards and witches in their nineties went to live the rest of their magically-lengthened lives after they faked their own deaths within the "normal" world. A handful of uninhabited government-run magic reserves were located in the most isolated regions of the continent, where witches and wizards could openly carry wands and practice their magic. There were also a few private magical resorts, catering to magicals who wanted to "Go Full Magic" while on holiday. But most native witches and wizards didn't see a need to visit these areas, likening them to nudist colonies that were patronized by people who were "clothing optional" behind the closed doors of their own homes.

The video presentation ended with a series of skits that showed how visiting witches and wizards could avoid making a mess of things during their stay. The lessons on how to live like a "normal" person who lacked magic were surprisingly practical and well done, in Harry and Hermione's eyes. But all three of them benefited from the suggestions on how and where magic could be safely and effectively used.

Ron wondered how he was expected to remember all of these rules, and not use magic even though he was of age. Hermione suggested that he just imagine that they were all back under his mother's thumb, cleaning Grimmauld Place by hand rather than by wand. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Ron considered that to be an immensely helpful hint.

**oo00OO00oo**

The female border patrol officer returned to the conference room as promised and answered a few questions once the video presentation had ended. Hermione had more than a few questions, but the officer was pressed for time, so she recommended a magic-focused travel guide that could be purchased within a local magic-friendly bookstore (all magic-friendly shops and restaurants within Australia were discretely identified by a black top hat symbol that was posted in their storefront window).

Following up on one of the talking points within the video, Agent Davis pulled out a small bag of business cards and gave one card to each of the teens. She told them to ignore the fact that the printed address was for a delicatessen in Sydney. The telephone number was real, and would put them in contact with Australia's Magical Detection Office (MDO). Calling that number and telling the witch or wizard on the other side of the line where they were staying would keep the MDO from sending out an Obliviation Squad if they were casting spells within areas where magic was rarely cast. Failing to make that call, and causing that squad to be dispatched due to a false alarm, would result in a hefty fine.

Hermione wondered how common public telephone boxes were, given the popularity of mobile telephone service within the non-magical world. The officer said they could look for public phones in front of post offices and service stations, and within most bars. She further noted that every magic-friendly "black top hat" store or restaurant would allow a witch or wizard to call the MDO if they flashed their fake business cards.

Officer Davis next provided them with an Australian Ministry-approved list of healer and hospitals. Hermione thought that the older witch was anticipating their need to refill potion prescriptions, but there was a different reason to provide this information; the medical providers on the list were all approved sources for Ministry-required vaccinations. The main concern was a local variant of Wizard's Flu known as "Billabong Bollocks" (since it produced sterility in approximately 80% of infected wizards).

When asked if she could make an unofficial recommendation within the list of medical providers, Officer Davis pointed to a solo practice in Sydney. She said that this specific healer was very professional, offered reasonable rates, and always seemed to be able to offer same-day appointments (although she didn't know if the healer had expertise with memory blocks). Officer Davis even offered the three teens the use of her office floo, so that they could call the healer and check availability. They were told over the flames that there were indeed two immediate openings available, so they thanked the Border Patrol officer for her help and stepped into the floo connection, one at a time.

The receptionist that greeted the three teenagers on the other side led them to the waiting area in front of her desk and handed Ron and Harry new patient intake questionnaires. Hermione didn't need an appointment since the vaccination was only for adult wizards, and she hadn't binned any potions. She was told that she would have to ask the healer for a referral for a magical mental specialist.

As the two teen-aged wizards filled in the different blanks as best they could, Ron whined about the fact that they'd just wasted all that time flying on a Muggle plane from Sydney to Melbourne, only to need a few seconds' time to make the return trip by magical means. Hermione defended her choice of destination by reminding Ron that her intuition had suggested that she start her search in Victoria. She also reminded him that nobody had forced him to make the trip.

Harry almost said something when it looked like Ron was about to argue that point, but held his tongue.

The forms were completed and the authorizations were signed without Hermione succumbing to the urge to insist in reviewing and revising Ron and Harry's answers. The two boys were then shown into adjacent examination rooms, and instructed to swap out their clothing for white open-back robes.

Hermione was going to wait, until the receptionist informed her that Harry and Ron would be in those examination rooms for at least sixty minutes. Deciding that there were better uses of her time than reading out-of-date magazines, the Muggleborn witch asked for the name of a shared floo access point in Melbourne, then headed off to do some research.

**oo00OO00oo**

The lime green robe-wearing healer had a rather down-to-earth disposition that reminded Harry more of Pomona Sprout than Poppy Pomfrey. She walked into his examination room with his completed paperwork in one hand, and a cup of steaming liquid in the other.

"Good morning, Mister…Potter?" she asked, reading his name off of the clipboard.

The Healer's gaze rose inexorably up off the clipboard and zeroed in on her patient's forehead. She blushed a bit when she spotted the fading scar and confirmed her patient's identify. And she blushed a bit more when she realized that her patient had caught staring.

"My apologies, Mr. Potter," the Healer said, as she placed the steaming brew down onto a counter top and closed the examination room door. "Of course there has to be more than one Harry Potter in the world, but when you identify the Hogwarts matron as your primary care healer, and list your parents' names as James and Lily Potter…"

"That's alright, Ma'am…I'm used to it by now."

"No excuse on my part, Mr. Potter, and please don't call me Ma'am…that makes me sound so old and matron-like."

"Fair enough, Healer…"

"Healer Dunn, Mr. Potter."

"Please, it's Harry," the teenager said. "Dare I ask whether everyone in this country will have the same first reaction?"

"Most folks within the Australian magical community won't know you by name," the Healer replied. "There were a few families like mine who emigrated here during Voldemort's first reign of terror. More arrived over the past two years, and some of those families were steered in my direction for the vaccine…which does allows time for updates on the Old Country…oh, right!"

"What's that?" Harry asked (now recognizing the Healer's residual British accent).

"I need to stop rambling, and you need to be vaccinated straight off," the Healer stated. "The protocols require forty-five minutes of monitoring after taking the potion."

"Any particular reason why?"

"Just need to treat the occasional side-effect or three," the Healer replied. "Easier to deal with lost toe nails while you're still in the office."

"Oh…any other potential side effects that I should be aware of?"

The Healer pulled a pamphlet out of her robe pocket and handed it to her patient.

"It's all here…nothing too horrible, and nothing that can't be fixed with a spell or potion."

Harry's eyes widened as he looked at all of the different potential side-effects.

"Is this vaccination really necessary?"

"It is if you ever want to have kids," the Healer stated. "It's also a government requirement for all post-pubescent wizards to be vaccinated against this disease…I can't force you to take the potion, but I'm required to immediately notify the Border Patrol Service if you choose not to take it. They'd pick you up and escort you out of the country before you had the chance to leave my office."

"That much of a risk?"

"Absolutely," the Healer stated "Billabong Bollocks is ridiculously easy to transmit by coughing or sneezing, and the sterility numbers are well-established…you'd face greater than three in four odds of killing off all of your little swimmers."

"And the government is that concerned about my ability to have kids?"

"It's not you that they're worrying over…it's the whole bloody country," the Healer said rather sharply. "It took more than a year's time to develop the vaccine after the first outbreak was recognized…by that point the damage was already done."

"How bad was it?"

The Healer sighed. "Approximately thirty-eight percent of all Australian wizards are casting blanks," she stated. "An additional twenty percent have sperm counts low enough to make their odds of becoming a biological father remote."

"More than half? Damn!" Harry hissed.

"Quite," said the Healer. "The government is really worried about the long-term survival of Australia's magical community…but look on the bright side!"

"There's a bright side?" Harry wondered.

"At least now we have a vaccine, and it's provided at no cost to you."

"Ah, so…sounds like I've got a potion to take."

"Excellent!" the healer replied, as she handed her patient the still-smoking cup.

"All of it?"

"Yes, all of it."

"Is it going to taste awful?"

"Is there a medicinal potion out there that doesn't?"

"Right…figured as much."

Harry's ability to chug the disgusting brew without a break or complaint impressed the hell out of the Healer. She placed the empty cup back onto a side table, then glanced at her wrist watch.

"Brilliant…you still have fifty-two minutes of my undivided attention."

"What's that?" Harry asked. "You aren't going to step out and see another patient, or something?"

"Heavens, no," the lime-green clad witch replied. "That wouldn't be very professional of me…and what are the chances that you'd experience an acute side-effect just as soon as I walked out the door?"

"Near-hundred percent, as long as I'm your patient."

"There you go, then," Healer Dunn declared. She patted Harry's knee with one hand, and used the other to fish a second pamphlet out of her robe pockets.

"So now we need to discuss a completely optional health survey," she said, handing Harry the pamphlet. "The government has initiated a long-term study that monitors local and regional trends in reproductive health issues."

"Is this related to the vaccine that I just took?" Harry asked, as he skimmed through the pamphlet.

"It is, actually," said the Healer. "I've already given you the percentages…after the Billabong outbreak, there's been understandable concern regarding our magical community's ability to sustain itself."

"I see," said Harry. "So this survey involves…."

"It is a longitudinal assessment of male fertility rates," the Healer explained.

"Sounds like you're tracking sperm counts in Australian wizards."

"That's exactly what we're doing."

"What does this have to do with wizards who aren't Australian?"

"We need external baseline points of comparison," the Healer said. "In addition, before and after samples obtained from vaccinated wizards who are only within the country for a short period of time can be used as a control for other environmental variables."

"So…what exactly would I need to do?"

"All you'd need to do is produce a sample. Shouldn't take that long, and since you are basically stuck here for the next forty-five minutes or so…"

"You want me to…_produce_…a semen sample?" Harry asked.

"It would, of course, be a completely anonymous submission," the Healer continued. "Nothing to tie you or your name to the sample or sample result, and all of the sample material would be incinerated once the analyses were completed."

Harry winced. "I don't know…I mean, it's not like I don't want to help, but…"

"Did I mention that you'd be compensated for your participation in the study?"

Harry shook his head, as his thoughts drifted towards their limited travel budget, and to the potions that he'd been forced to discard.

He chewed on his lower lip a bit, then asked, "What kind of compensation are we talking about?"

"Two-hundred fifty Australian dollars for the first sample," the Healer replied. "If you stay in country for at least two weeks and provide a second sample before you depart, it's two-fifty for that one as well."

Harry let out a deep breath as he thought about the offer. Access to his Gringott's accounts was still blocked while lawyers and goblins disputed dragon damages. All three of them were due significant cash awards tied to their Orders of Merlin, but they wouldn't be paid out until the Ministry of Magic got back up on its feet and got its finances in order. So the money simply hadn't been there to search for Hermione's parents…until Harry had the bright idea of selling most of Grimmauld Place's uncharmed furniture to a Muggle antique dealer. That windfall had been big enough to purchase three round-trip airplane tickets and finance a month of budget travel once they were in Australia. But it was a really tight budget, and it didn't allow for unanticipated medical expenses.

He briefly considered just going without his potions, but was smart enough to know that Hermione would insist on sleeping in the streets in order to replace what had been lost.

"Can I…get something from my trouser pocket?" Harry finally asked, pointing towards his folded pile of street clothes.

The teenaged wizard hopped off the end of the examination table and walked over to his clothes pile, with one hand firmly gripping the back of his robes together. He retrieved the list that he'd written out at the airport, and handed it to the Healer on his way back to the table.

"That's all of the potions that I've been taking over the past couple of weeks," he told her. "It's also a list of what I had to dump this morning, before clearing customs in Melbourne."

"Why did you need to….?"

Harry shook his head. "Because my school nurse didn't bother to write out a prescription for potions that she either supplied or brewed herself?"

"No, Mr. Potter," the Healer replied. "I was going to ask why you needed to take this many potions, and in these dosages."

The teen-aged warrior snorted. "I thought you kept up on what's been happening back in Britain."

"Right…were you looking to have all of these replaced, then?"

"Yeah, I was…any idea how much that would cost me?"

The Healer did some quick mental math.

"How long were you planning to be here?"

"Let's assume four weeks."

"Well, then…a four week supply for someone who doesn't qualify for the government subsidy…roughly two hundred and thirty dollars."

Harry rolled his eyes. "You aren't jacking up the prices, just to get them close to the wanker's reward, are you?"

"Close to a wanker's what?" the Healer asked. "Oh, right…the answer is no. That total actually includes a new patient discount for the potions that we brew in-house."

Her new patient let out a deep breath.

"Alright, then…sign me up."

"You do realize that I can't just write out these prescriptions without at least some understanding of why they are needed?"

"How much observation time is left?"

It was the Healer's turn to let out a deep breath. "You actually did a fairly good job identifying your symptoms in the questionnaire. We should be good…assuming that it takes you the normal amount of time for a teenager to provide a sample."

Harry laughed. "Is there some kind of minimum volume requirement?"

"No, there isn't a minimum…well, actually there is, but at your age it won't be an issue, unless you've…erm…produced a sample within the past hour or two?"

Her blushing patient shook his head.

"Excellent," the Healer said. She walked over to a bank of cabinets, opened one of the drawers, and pulled out a new set of forms and a capped porcelain cup that was slightly smaller than a coffee mug.

"I can fill out all of these while you go about your business," she stated. "It's a very simple process…no muss, no fuss."

The Healer held the covered cup in front of her, then pushed her index finger straight through the cap. The porcelain cup immediately shrank down, creating a snug fit around the finger.

"It's a charmed semi-permeable barrier, combined with a sized-right grip that will expand or contract as needed," she explained. "Adjusts to fit any size erection, and provides a very vigorous level of suction and stimulation. Once you slip it over the head, you just lie back and let the collector do the work."

"Sounds more like a milking machine," Harry quipped.

The Healer laughed. "I suppose that isn't an unfair comparison." She pointed to a red dot on the bottom of the cup and identified it as the emergency release button; while the collector would automatically return to its original size once a sample was produced, the emergency release was to be used in case the device needed to be removed before that point. The Healer then demonstrated how the emergency button worked by retrieving her finger.

"That's it, then?" Harry asked, as she handed him the cup.

"Yes, it should be…oh, right…," the Healer said, as she walked over to the counter and pulled open a drawer. Grabbing a stack of pornographic magazines, she asked, "Would you like some visual aids? It helps some patients move things along…I've got both straight and gay to select from…"

Harry's cheeks reddened as he looked down and shook his head.

"Nothing to be embarrassed about, Mr. Potter," the Healer said. She brought the stack of porn over to the examination table and slipped it underneath the paper-covered pillow. "I'll leave these here, just in case."

Harry nodded.

"Alright then," the Healer said, "just need to do a quick check for side effects….ten finger nails, ten toe nails, ear lobes aren't resting on your shoulders yet…I think that you're good to go. I'll be right over there at the desk if you need me…"

"You mean…you aren't going to step outside?" Harry nervously asked.

"I'm sorry, I can't," the Healer said sympathetically. "It would create a bit of an issue if I ran into myself out there."

"Ran into yourself…time turner?" Harry asked.

The Healer shushed him, and placed a finger over her lips.

"Is that why we didn't have to wait for an appointment?" Harry asked.

"Why Mr. Potter, I have no idea what you are talking about!" the witch said with fake concern.

"Right," her patient replied. "Well…this isn't going to work, if you think that I'm going to…with you still here…"

"Please, Mr. Potter…what are you suggesting?" the Healer asked. A smile formed on her lips as she pointed her wand towards the ceiling and called for a set of curtains to slowly drop down around the examination table.

"These drapes are soundproof, if you're worried about me hearing you," she explained. "That means you'll have to lift them up once you're done…I won't know otherwise…it's the same if you need help, or start losing fingernails while the cup is working…"

Harry just shook his head in disbelief as the curtains reached the floor and cut off the Healer's instructions. He waited a full minute, in case she popped in to tell him something else that she'd forgotten. But the curtains stayed down, and the external sounds stayed out.

"Hermione, you really owe me one," Harry said out loud. He lifted the hem of his robe, applied the collector device as directed, and leaned back onto the table. As the vibrations kicked in, he closed his eyes, and added, "You'll just have to trust me when I'm too embarrassed to explain why."

**oo00OO00oo**

Once the work was done and the curtains were raised, the Healer treated her raven-haired patient with kid gloves over the balance of the hour. A dedicated secure floo connection was used to send the sample directly off for analysis. An envelope containing both test results and cash came back from that laboratory facility just before the Healer's time-turned hour had elapsed. She congratulated Harry, telling him that his sperm count was well within the normal range for a healthy teen-aged wizard. In addition, his little swimmers were strong swimmers, and would be more than up to the task of fertilization when it came time for Harry to start a family.

Harry and the Healer had used the brief period of time in between the curtain raising and cash payment to discuss his war-related health issues. He was initially reluctant to talk about all that had happened, but the Healer was good at her job, and was eventually able to coax out some of the reasons behind his need for sleeping potions, and anti-anxiety potions, and a potion that mitigated the effects of _Cruciatus_ exposure. It wasn't that she couldn't have figured that out all on her own with a series of diagnostic scans…it was more the fact that she wanted Harry to at least begin talking about and processing what had happened.

The Healer quickly realized that her patient was presenting symptoms that were consistent with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Harry resisted her diagnosis, until she took the time to explain both the symptoms and the potential negative outcomes. The healer admitted that she wasn't an expert on diagnosing and treating PTSD, but she did know someone who was…a wizard who was cross-trained as a healer/physician, and that worked with the Australian Auror Corps. Harry reminder her that he was just visiting the country, and that he didn't know where he'd be or how long he would be staying. The Healer understood, but still pressed the issue. She gave Harry the other Healer's contact information, and insisted that he give him a ring…at the very least he might know someone back in Britain who could help him upon his return.

When the alarm chime on the Healer's wrist watch went off, she smiled, pronounced Harry past the danger zone for vaccine-related side-effects, and shook his hand. She then headed off to prepare his prescriptions, instructing him to return to the waiting room once he dressed.

**oo00OO00oo**

Harry almost bumped into Ron as they both exited from their respective examination rooms at the same time. The red-haired wizard waggled his eyebrows and asked, "So was it good for you too, Mate?"

"Shut the hell up!" Harry whispered harshly.

"What?" Ron asked.

Harry held up a finger, urging his friend to stand still and stay quiet. He snuck down the short hallway and looked up at the convex mirror that hung over the blind intersection. Not seeing anyone within the intersecting hallway, he tip-toed back towards Ron and hissed, "Don't you dare say a word about any optional surveys and sample collections to Hermione!"

"Why not?" the other teen asked.

"Because she's going to feel guilty that we went through that, just so that we could help her find her parents."

"But it wasn't like it hurt, or anything," Ron replied. "I almost asked if she wanted me to whip up a second sample!"

"Just…don't!" Harry insisted.

Ron thought for a moment, then snorted. "So what's this really about, then?"

"Nothing more than what I said…if I hadn't traveled with Hermione, then I wouldn't have needed to pay for replacement potions, or had to worry about how much money we'll have to search for her parents."

"Oh," said Ron. "So…are you saying that we can't blow the toss money on a night on the town?"

"I've already spent my money on those potions," Harry hissed.

"Okay, then…well if we can't tell Hermione how I got my money, then we can't add it to the travel budget, right?"

Harry sighed, seeing where the conversation was going.

"No, we can't. I'll have to claim that the potions were free under some national health program, or some such. And you'll have to keep your cash it in your wallet as an emergency stash."

"So we can't just 'find' it on the sidewalk or something?"

"No," Harry decided. "Now let's head back to the waiting room before Hermione gets suspicious."

As it turned out, the bushy-haired teenager wasn't waiting for them in the waiting room. Once the receptionist told the two teens that their friend had left to run a few errands, they rummaged through the magazine collection and took a seat.

It didn't take Ron much time to revisit the earlier discussion topic. Using an opened magazine to block the receptionist's view of his face, he leaned towards Harry and whispered, "So what was _your _score?"

Harry turned towards his friend and hissed, "What?"

"Your sperm count, Mate. How big is it?"

"Are we playing mine's bigger than yours?"

"No, of course not," said Ron. "Just curious."

Harry rolled his eyes. "She didn't give me an actual number. Just said that it's good enough to get the job done."

"That's all?" Ron asked. "Interesting."

"How so?"

"Mine was so high that she had me practicing the contraception charm," Ron boasted.

"Good on you, Mate," Harry said half-enthusiastically.

"Guess it makes sense, given how big my family is," Ron noted.

Harry shrugged, and nodded his head as he returned his attention to his selected magazine.

Ron did his best to hide how great he was feeling at that moment. His best wasn't very good.

His friend eventually looked up and sighed.

"You know you can't tell Hermione, right?" Harry asked.

"Of course I know!"

"And you know that she's going to ask why you're obviously so damn proud of yourself?"

"Really?" Ron asked. "I'm trying not to show it."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Right then, when she gets back, we'll explain that the crazy-arse grin on your face is one of the lingering side-effects of the vaccination."

"But you're not smiling?"

"So it's a side effect that not everyone gets?" Harry replied.

"Hmm…guess that works," Ron decided.

That the excuse wasn't immediately necessary when Hermione stepped out of the office floo connection said far more about her emotional state than Ron's.

Harry was quick to notice her brave face, and asked, "What's wrong?"

The watery-eyed Muggleborn glanced towards the receptionist, then pulled her two friends towards the far corner of the waiting room. She gratefully accepted the handkerchief that Harry offered, and with her back turned towards the other witch, explained where she had been.

Melbourne's most popular floo destination was the Traveller's Aid Office that sat inside Flinders Street Station (the largest and busiest train station within the city). That floo connection was located within a separate room that catered to magical travelers, and was staffed by someone that knew about magic and could help the arriving witch or wizard with their questions or needs. There was a computer work station in that room that offered free internet access, and Hermione had used that internet connection to do a few simple searches.

One search identified a Roger Granger and Emily Granger that shared a street address within an upscale suburb of Melbourne. A second search provided a shared telephone number at that address.

It had taken Hermione most of her time away from the Healer's office to summon up enough Gryffindor courage to use the Traveller's Aid Office's telephone to ring that number….

"_Hello?"_

"_Hello, is this the Granger residence?"_

"_Yes it is….Oh! Is that…HERMIONE?"_

_(click)_

Hermione hadn't actually heard that last shout, as she had slammed the handset down onto its cradle just as soon as she had recognized her mother's voice.

Ron thought it was fabulous that they had located Hermione's parents so quickly, and asked if the Traveller's Aid Office could help them book next-day return flights to London. Harry displayed more than a teaspoon of empathy, and wrapped his best friend into a hug. He shushed her tearful apologizes, and once again assured Hermione that her parents would understand, and wouldn't hate her for what she had needed to do to ensure their safety.

The receptionist called out Harry's name a few minutes later, and let him know that his prescription order was ready. The large collection of capped vials and stoppered bottles was sitting on a side table, along with the corresponding prescriptions and instructions. While none of the containers would have looked out of place within a Muggle bathroom cabinet, the collective volume was large enough to warrant storage within Harry's shrunk-down trunk. The act of organizing those containers within Harry's trunk and cross-checking against the prescription list did a lot to help Hermione bring her emotions under control.

With everything packed away and all three teenagers finally ready to venture out into fresh air, Harry asked Hermione if she still wanted to spend the night at a Melbourne hostel. He figured that it would be just as easy to find someplace to stay in Sydney (or any other Australian city that was connected to the floo network). The Muggleborn witch shook her head, and said that before calling her parents she checked on room availability at the Nunnery. There were spaces available, and Hermione wasn't about to let an opportunity to prank Molly Weasley pass by.

Ron asked how booking a place to stay would prank his mum.

Hermione asked what Molly might think when she received a postcard from her son stating that he'd spent a night inside a nunnery.

Harry asked if either Hermione or Ron knew whether howlers could be sent internationally.

**oo00OO00oo**

_Traveller's Aid Office  
>Flinders Street Station, Melbourne<em>

The female squib that was staffing the magic room desk within the Aid Office looked up from her crossword puzzle and gave Hermione a friendly wave when she stepped out of the floo. The welcome that she gave to the teen-aged wizards that followed behind Hermione was far more enthusiastic. She had so many questions about who they were, and where they were from, and if they had been vaccinated, and how she might make their stay within Melbourne more memorable. Harry might have passed off the woman's exuberance as gossip mining, but couldn't shake the feeling that Ron and he had just been tagged as fresh meat.

The three teens quickly left that room, through a door that was marked with the "One House" symbol that symbolized the common area shared by magical and non-magical on the other side. There were a handful of other travelers in the main room of the Aid Office, looking for help finding places to stay or sights to see. Hermione pulled a free city map out of her rucksack pocket, and showed Harry and Ron that she had already marked their half-hour long walk from the station to their hostel. Harry asked what the two "M's" marked along the route stood for, and congratulated Hermione on her foresight (once she identified them as the home of golden arches).

The-Boy-Who-Won laughed out loud when the three teens walked out of the Aid Office and into the station proper. When Hermione asked Harry what was so funny, he pointed towards the track numbers marked on either side of the Aid Office, and asked if they were expected to think it mere coincidence that the station's floo connection was located in between platforms 9 and 10. Hermione just shook her head as she led the two teen-aged wizards into the station's domed foyer.

Sunshine filtering in through four large stained-glass arched windows cast the area beneath the Flinders Street Station's copper dome in warm yellow colors. The main entrance on the far side of this expansive tiled area opened to the street, with people passing into and out of the station underneath an iconic set of clocks that marked train arrival times.

It was the early afternoon of the first Friday of the Australian winter month of July, and Melbourne's cool but comfortable temperatures were being carried into the domed area through the wide open entrance. As they walked past an open-air flower stall, Ron wondered out loud about what kind of winter it really was when cut flowers could be sold out in the open by vendors who didn't need to wear a jacket. Hermione reminded him that winters were different at latitudes lower than Scotland's, pointed towards the jackets and scarves that some of the locals were wearing. That led Ron to question the cold-weather heartiness of the locals, which in turn led Harry to remind Ron that people who lived in heat-charmed glass houses shouldn't throw stones.

Ron, of course, didn't get the reference.

The wide stairs that led from the station down to street level were, according to Hermione's guide book, almost as famous as the clocks that hung over the entrance. Moving from the relatively quiet station out into a vibrant, chaotic street scene filled with cars and trams and people drove Harry's senses back into full-blown threat assessment mode. His eyes darted from one side to the other as the three teens stood at the top of the stairs. He was looking for a hint or hidden wand, or for out-of-place clothing worn by people who themselves seemed out-of-place…any clue that might reveal a Death Eater in disguise. The wizard-specific search criteria initially carried his piercing gaze past the tall, curly haired man who was checking his smart phone at the base of the stairs. But there was no missing this man's fish-out-of-water appearance a few seconds later, as he stared directly at Hermione with saucer-sized eyes.

It was the way the man was chewing on his lower lip that allowed Harry to make the connection, and to lower his guard.

"Hermione?" the man called out tentatively.

She turned towards the voice, froze for a second like a deer in the headlights, then (like a deer) turned tail and fled back towards the station…only to collide head-on under the clocks with a parent coming from the other direction.

That parent, who had just used the station's washroom, wrapped her arms around her little girl and joyfully shouted out her little girl's name.

The echo within the cavernous domed area was impressive.

"HERMIONE!"

The flower seller looked up and smiled, as yet another teary-eyed reunion took place on the steps of the Flinders Street Station.

Harry and Ron had also turned towards mother and daughter, allowing the father to walk up behind them and place a hand on their shoulders.

"You boys aren't thinking of trying to disappear on us as well, are you?"

Harry shook his head and smiled.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Granger."

"No problems with your memory, then?"

"No, Sir," Harry replied. "We met in Diagon Alley, school shopping before second year."

"The year we had to buy all of that foppish fraud's books, wasn't it?"

Ron laughed at the description.

"How did you know we were here?" Harry asked.

"Hermione called from Traveller's Aid, and we've got caller ID," Roger explained.

Ron frowned at that cryptic explanation, while Hermione's father stepped forward to get his own Hermy Hug.

Mrs. Granger used that opportunity to rush over and pull Harry and Ron into their own awkward three-way embrace.

"Thank you for giving us back our daughter," the woman sobbed.

Harry reached up and gave Hermione's mother a pat on the back. He shook his head and said, "No, Ma'am…we're the ones that should be thanking you…thanking you for letting your daughter go back to Britain in the first place."

The fit middle-aged woman spun the three-way hug around, and opened it up that they were now facing her husband and daughter. She looked up at Harry and asked, "So you knew, then?"

"Knew that Hermione never altered your memories?"

Emily Granger nodded.

"Just figured it out, actually," Harry replied. "She had someone alter hers, then?"

Hermione's mother nodded.

"We got a letter in the regular mail last July, from a wizard named Alastor Moody," she explained. "She asked him to do it. He was going to restore her memories after the troubles ended, so I gather that he didn't…?"

"No, he didn't," Ron muttered. "A lot of good people didn't survive."

Emily nodded. "There was a letter within that letter as back-up…it's sitting back home on our fireplace mantle, waiting for Hermione. Written by Hermione, for that matter."

"She might still be able to have her memories restored," said Ron.

"Might be better off if they weren't," Hermione's mother sighed. "Still…water under the bridge, and all that?"

"Yes, Ma'am, lots of dots to connect," said Harry. He waved towards Hermione and her father and asked, "Maybe we should go someplace where we can talk freely?"

Emily Granger looked around the station, and out towards the station's steps, and noticed a lot of disaffected teens and earbud-wearing, mobile phone-staring adults. She laughed, and asked, "Do you think anyone would really notice if we talked freely here?"

Harry performed his own perimeter scan, and conceded the point…maybe this "One House" approach to keeping magic secret really wasn't really going to be all that hard?

Roger and Emily loved the nunnery joke, but still insisted that the three teens stay with them in their new home in the Melbourne suburbs. Hermione's mum also insisted that Ron ride in the front passenger seat on the drive home, since he had the longest legs. Having Hermione sit in the middle of the rear bench gave her mum more opportunities to hug her daughter. It also gave Harry the one opportunity that he needed to whisper into Hermione's ear, and remind her that she'd just lost a bet.

The bushy-haired teen kissed Harry on the cheek and said, "Lucky me!"

She playfully refused to elaborate upon that statement, leading Harry to wonder whether she was talking more about paying off the lost bet than about her parent's reaction.

**oo00OO00oo**

_Garema Arcade  
>Canberra, Australian Capital Territory<em>

Carolyn Umbridge was a frumpy fifty seven-year old witch that ate lunch at a popular Muggle café often enough for the Muggle waitress to thank her by name as she dropped off the check. She was also enough of a regular to know the total amount on that check without looking. That meant that she would need her Muggle credit card to pay the bill, since she'd forgotten to stop by the Muggle ATM to get Muggle cash from her Muggle bank account. So she gave the Muggle waitress her Muggle card, then used a Muggle ball-point pen to sign a Muggle charge slip that was printed on Muggle paper.

The great majority of native-born witches and wizards within Australia didn't use the term "Muggle," and wouldn't have applied this kind of mental labeling to the everyday objects and experiences within their day-to-day life. And if they did winnow, it wouldn't be between what was "normal" and what was "Muggle." It would be exactly the opposite, with the non-magical being their "norm."

Those kinds of witches and wizards, in Carolyn Umbridge's opinion, didn't deserve their magic.

The plain-looking witch was one of those rare native Australians who wanted governmental policy to shift closer to the way things were done in England, where Carolyn's cousin lived. The kind of place where children sat for OWLs and NEWTs, witches and wizards lived in proper magical communities, and where the government was run by proper witches and wizards that had proper blood purity and proper skin tones. Carolyn and some similarly disgruntled witches and wizards belonged to a secret group…a secret group that held secret meetings where they dreamed up secret schemes, and yearned for a game-changing crisis from which great opportunity could arise.

Billabong Bollocks was the crisis that they had been waiting for, with the potential to help shift the demographics of the Australian magical community in a favorable (i.e. elitist and racist) direction. And Carolyn Umbridge and her friends/co-conspirators were in a position to tilt the playing field, which was why her pulse had been racing throughout her meal. She was a governmental employee, and using her position to secretly promote her racist viewpoints would (if revealed) result in both her sacking and some jail time. So she (and those who thought like her) had to be sneaky about it, and employ methods that were right out of a Muggle spy novel.

Methods like secret signals and dead-drops.

There had been an extra chalk mark on the chalkboard easel that sat just outside of the café's doors. It was just a small mark in the corner of the board…nothing that anybody else would have taken note of (not even the waitress who would wash the board clean the next morning to write out that day's specials). Carolyn had spotted the mark, and had wanted to immediately proceed to the dead-drop location to retrieve the secret message. But she was a proper pseudo-spy who knew that she shouldn't break from routine. So she entered the café, ordered her usual meal, and paid for it using her Muggle charge card. And then she decided that she really didn't need her copy of the charge slip, so on the return walk to her office, she tossed it towards a city-owned rubbish bin.

She missed, and sent the balled-up receipt into the adjacent foliage. As she rummaged through the foliage to retrieve her misplaced trash, she did her civic duty and picked up an additional piece of litter.

That additional piece of "litter" wasn't properly disposed of until after the middle-aged witch had returned to her governmental office and visited the ladies room.

Hidden behind a locked stall door, the witch read what had been written on that extra piece of litter while she emptied her bladder:

"_**250-95-4-92"**_

The numbers were unbelievable…at least if you knew that they were associated with a semen analysis.

- Two-hundred and fifty million sperm cells per milliliter, when the average range for still-fertile Australian wizards was ten to thirty million.

- Ninety-five percent of the little swimmers actually swimming, when fifty percent was more the norm.

- Four on the zero-to-four scale that measured "quality of movement," which meant that the sperm cells not only could swam in the right direction, but could do so at a record pace.

- And 92 on the 100 point scale of morphology; so they were damn-fine looking sperm, with the streamlined profile needed to get where they needed to go.

The middle-aged witch looked at the message a second time, just to make sure that she hadn't misplaced a decimal place. Then she tossed the slip of paper into the toilet bowl, weighed it down with several pieces of bog paper, and flushed it away.

Umbridge mulled over the numbers as she washed her hands, then returned to her office. This was Superman-quality spunk…the kind of ejaculate that could get a witch pregnant just by some heavy petting. All they needed was for this semen to have sprung forth from the right kind of penis…a white, Pureblood penis, to be exact. Preferably English or of English heritage, and uncircumcised.

It was unlikely that the person who had risked their career to give Umbridge this message knew these other details. For security purposes she didn't know who this person was, or what they did. But she imagined that they worked in the governmental laboratory that analyzed the quality of all magical sperm samples collected within Australia. And while this collaborator might have access to all of the test numbers, strict secrecy and non-discriminatory protocols would prevent this person from knowing which wizard had produced any given semen sample.

Carolyn's best guess was that the super semen sample was from a wizard who was new to the system; either from a native teen whose balls had just dropped, or from a foreign wizard that had recently entered the country and volunteered to participate in the government's sperm survey. She wasn't in a position to track which pimply-faced boy had just tossed his first one off in a healer's office. But her position as a policy analyst within the magical division of the Customs and Border Patrol Service could help on the foreign arrivals side. As long as she was willing to risk everything to do her part for the cause.

She was.

There was a computer-printed list within Carolyn Umbridge's purse when she left the office that evening. On that list were the names of twenty-seven foreign wizards who had entered the country through a controlled border point over the previous twenty-four hours. Twenty had arrived using magical means of transport; the other seven had flown into the country on a Muggle airplane. All had (presumably) received the vaccine, but there was no way to tell how many had volunteered to submit a semen sample for the longitudinal study.

Some of the names on this list obviously didn't belong to the right kind of wizard. But it was important for their cause to identify the source, even if they were from an "undesirable" ethnic group (it wasn't too far-fetched to imagine that the witches and wizards within these communities were searching for their own super-sperm donor who could single-handedly boost their head counts). It wasn't for Umbridge to decide whom to pursue, or what to do once the super sperm donor was identified. That decision would be made further down the chain, at least one or two persons removed from whoever would be receiving this list of names as their own dead-dropped message, later that evening.

That dead-drop might well end Carolyn's involvement within this particular scheme. Unless, of course, she was given this super sperm producer's name and location, and asked to take on a new mission for the cause…a mission that might require nine months to gestate.

**oo00OO00oo**

**A/N #2:** The sun actually shined down on the fresh snow this afternoon, allowing for some much-needed natural light therapy. Whether the muse keeps me focused on this new story (or turns me back to B4B) might depend on the efficacy of that sunshine.

This story could probably use a good Aussie-pick, if someone is inclined to point out where my internet research has failed me. It is also un-beta'ed at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2: The Rear Bench Seat

**Little Swimmers  
><strong>A multi-chaptered somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

**A/N:** I was originally planning on this being a five chapter story, with each chapter 15k-20k words long. But after a lot of constructive criticism from readers who needed to re-read an entire story each time that I updated because those updates were too few and too far between, I've decided to make a new year's resolution to post more often, even if it means shorter chapters. Of course, this runs the risk of generating the counter-criticism that each shorter chapter doesn't advance the story very much. But I'm going to run that risk, at least for now, and for this story. Readers are free to chime in with their own opinions.

Thanks to the Aussies who chimed in with their reviews, and especially to my new pen-pal and fellow fanfic author from South Australia, who has volunteered quite a bit of his time to provide constructive comments that have improved both the initial chapter and my knowledge of Australia. Apologies to the dinky-di multi-generational Aussie reviewer who thought that it was bloody hilarious that a Yank would have the cojones to set a story in Melbourne without ever having been there (or in Oz, for that matter). I sincerely hope that he sleeps better at night, now that I've corrected my grievous error and revised the labeling of his home airport's main runway as "16," rather than "17." Close circuit to Mawsel (who has turned off my ability to directly respond to his review)…there was no reason to tell my readers that you locals call your airport "Tulla." The official airport name isn't Tulla, the story characters who flew into that airport wouldn't have known it by that name, and those locals that they interacted with would have had no reason to correct their ignorance. Keep it up, and I'll bring back that Healer from Sydney and have her start ripping on your city. Lord knows that there are folks in NSW who think that there's plenty of good reasons to do so! Cheers, Mate!

Finally, this un- beta'd chapter is one extended scene that goes back over a bit of timeline and a single paragraph from the previous chapter. You should be able to see where the overlap lines up.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**oo00OO00oo**

**Chapter 2: The Rear Bench Seat  
><strong>

_Flinders Gate Carpark  
>Flinders Street, Melbourne<em>

Hermione was quick to notice the way that Harry's eyes shifted down the rows and aisles of parked cars as he reflexively performed perimeter threat assessments within the carpark. She also picked up on her father's deviation from the Queen's English when he pointed down one specific row towards his new Audi. Reaching out to give her friend's hand a reassuring squeeze while she engaged in some good-natured teasing, she addressed both situations contemporaneously.

"Really, Daddy…calling it a sedan, rather than a saloon?" she asked. "Sounds as if you've spent the past twelve months in the States, rather than Down Under."

"It's what they're called here, Dear," Hermione's mum explained. "Just like we'll be sharing the road with trucks and station wagons, rather than lorries and estate cars."

"But it's not like they totally tossed proper English into the rubbish bin," her father added, as he led the way towards their car.

"Garbage bin, Dear," said Emily.

"Yes, yes…garbage bin…at least it's not garbage _can_," Roger replied, using his version of a nasally American accent. "And it might be a _sedan_, but it still has a proper bonnet and boot."

To punctuate that comparison, Hermione's father reached into his trouser pocket and pushed two of the three buttons on his Audi's key fob. He was hoping to show off a bit of "Muggle magic" by remotely unlocking the car and popping open the boot lid.

The sedan's "chirp chirp" response, unfortunately, produced more of a reaction than he might have liked.

"Harry!"

Roger spun at the sound of his daughter's shout, and watched most of her disappear behind her black-haired friend, who had drawn out his wand and stepped protectively in front of her. Making his own instant threat assessment, Hermione's father slowly drew his hand out of his trouser pocket and held out his car key.

"It's just the remote control, Son," Roger said slowly and evenly.

Harry's wand was dropping and his cheeks were reddening even before the older man had completed his explanation.

"Sorry," the teenager replied, as his wand disappeared back up into his hidden wrist holster. "I'm still a bit…jittery."

"We're all still a bit jittery," said Hermione, as she stepped out from behind Harry and slipped her hand around his waist. "It's been a really long trip."

"And a really long year," Ron agreed, as he tossed his rucksack into the Audi's boot.

"_A few months longer for some than for others,"_ Harry thought, as food and the Forest of Dean sprang to mind. But he didn't voice those slightly snippy thoughts, as Hermione and he followed Ron's lead and slipped off their rucksacks.

Mrs. Granger insisted that the red-haired teenager sit in the front passenger seat, since he had the longest legs. Harry didn't notice a shortage of leg room once he climbed onto the luxury sedan's rear bench seat (especially when compared to what they had endured in Air India's economy section), but he wasn't going to argue the point if it allowed him to sit next to Hermione and maintain some comforting points of body contact.

The teen-aged wizard smiled when Mrs. Granger walked around to the other side of the car and pushed her daughter into the center spot. From the way that she had slipped her hand behind her daughter's back and pulled her into a side-by-side embrace, it seemed as if Hermione's mum was interested in that same kind of body contacting comfort. The wide smile on the teen-aged witch's face as she melted into both points of physical contact made the sentiment unanimous (at the same time that Roger's and Ron's focus on securing a seat belt made the sentiment unobserved).

As Roger backed out of the parking spot, his wife raised her voice from the rear bench seat and asked, "Mid-day traffic and no great rush, what do you say we rat run it home?"

Emily's husband looked up at the rear view mirror and chuckled.

"My wife, the social deviant," he teased. "Clogging the local roads and annoying the local citizenry just to avoid the toll road and save a bit of cash?"

"We can hardly show them the city from inside the Burnley Tunnel," Emily noted.

"Yes, Dear," Roger said in a sing-song voice.

His wide-eyed front seat passenger asked, "There are tunnels big enough to drive cars through?"

"Of course there are, Ronald," Hermione sighed with exasperation. "Just as there are Muggle-built tunnels large enough for the Hogwarts Express to pass through. You have been on board that train at least a few times, haven't you?"

"Oh, right...I forgot."

Roger chuckled at his passenger's question as he pulled up to the car park's exit and paid the appropriate fee. He asked, "I don't suppose you get to travel much by automobile in your world?"

"Nah, I've been in cars before," Ron replied. "I've even driven one."

"I don't think that flying cars count," Harry quipped. "And do you really want to brag about driving your dad's car, given how that trip ended?"

"Well how else were we supposed to get to Hogwarts that year?" Ron asked defensively.

Hermione sighed. "Aside from notifying the authorities, or your parents, and traveling to Hogsmeade or the Headmaster's Office using the floo?"

"Yeah, yeah…easy to say that now," Ron replied. "Harry didn't seem to have a better idea at the time."

The other teen-aged wizard in the car snorted. "True enough, although if I remember correctly, you weren't much interested in considering any alternatives."

Now driving out on the street, Roger asked, "This was the start of your second year, when that Dobby character was causing mischief, right?"

The question sucked the playful mood that had been building within the car straight out the exhaust. Roger looked at the stone-faced somber expressions on the three teens and asked, "What's wrong? That was in one of Hermione's letters, wasn't it?"

His daughter's eyes began to tear up as she reached to cover the fading scar mark that Bellatrix's torturing had left on her arm.

"Dobby was…he was one of the heroes that didn't survive the War," she explained. "He rescued us from captivity, right while I was being…"

"He saved all of us," Harry interjected, as he wrapped his arm around Hermione's shoulder and pulled her towards him. "That noble little guy, with his noble mischief…dropping chandeliers down onto the heads of wicked witches, and stepping in front of thrown knives…"

"I'm so sorry," said Roger. "I didn't know…didn't mean to bring up…"

"No, it's not your fault," said Harry. "It's part of what happened this past year…and you've a right to know." He then turned towards Hermione and whispered, "Right?"

The teen-aged witch worried her lower lip with her teeth, but eventually nodded.

"Yes, Mum and Dad…you do deserve to hear the whole story," she stated. "I'm just afraid about how angry you'll be when that whole story requires me to revise some of the earlier chapters, when I wasn't being completely..."

"Truthful?" her mother asked.

"Well, I was going to say 'candid,' but that works just as well," Hermione admitted.

"I think that we knew more than you think we knew," Emily said, giving her daughter's arm a reassuring squeeze. "Most parents do."

"Which means that if we're going to be angry with anyone about those revisions, it'll be with ourselves," Roger added. "I mean…what kind of parents were we? Allowing you to return to that school, year after year, knowing how dangerous the place was. Allowing you to return to that _**country**_ last year, knowing how dangerous the place had become…"

Glancing up towards the front seats, Harry became concerned with both the agitated expression on Roger's face, and his white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.

"It's going to be a very long story, I'm afraid," he said. "Too long to do it justice while we're in the car… unless you live in some far-off suburb?"

"No, we're actually pretty close in," Roger replied. "We would have missed you at the train station, had we'd rented a house any further out."

"Ah, well then," said Harry. "As I suspect that you'll want a drink in your hand as the story is told, and since the laws about drinking and driving here aren't likely to be that different than England's…"

"They aren't," Roger agreed. "And there just so happens to be a very nice bottle of Australian sparkling wine at home that has been waiting for Hermione's return to be uncorked…we can start in on the whiskey and the story telling after that." He thought for a moment, then jokingly asked, "You two boys are both eighteen, right?"

"I am, but Harry isn't," Ron was quick to reply.

"For another four whole weeks," the teenager in question whined.

"Ah, well then...under the local laws, we're supposed to obtain parental consent before serving alcohol in our home to their under-aged children, but…"

"_Daddy…."_ Hermione growled.

"Oh please, I did say, _'but'_," Roger whined. "As in…_but in this case the local laws can sod off_."

Harry shook his head. "You don't have to…"

"Yes he does," Hermione replied. "Statute of Secrecy be damned, I'll curse the first person who says that you shouldn't be treated as an adult."

"Language, Hermione," her mother admonished.

Ron barked out a laugh, noting, "That's usually her line."

Hermione's mum shook her head. "Well, I'm in agreement with there being no more story telling until we're home…I'm supposed to be pointing out the local sites as justification for avoiding that seven dollar toll, right? So, kids…that was the Yarra River that we just crossed, and to your left is the Royal Botanical Gardens. We're presently traveling south on St. Kilda Road towards, appropriately enough, St. Kilda, which is famous for its beach. St. Kilda used to be the most fashionable suburb in Melbourne with fashionable people living in huge Victorian mansions, before it became all dodgy with hippies and drug-users and prostitutes…something wrong, Dear?"

Harry shook his head and held up his hands.

"No Ma'am, that was very informative," he replied, trying to clamp down on his grin. "I just realized that there must be an inherited component to your daughter's ability to talk in whole pages without breathing."

"Harry!" Hermione whined, as everyone else in the car laughed at his joke.

"So, we're heading towards a famous beach, Mrs. Granger?" Harry asked.

"Yes, St Kilda's foreshore is very popular," Hermione's mum replied. "It's certainly not the cleanest or prettiest beach that we've visited during our stay, but given how close in it is…"

"So it's not exactly a deserted beach?" Harry asked.

Emily shook her head. "My heavens, no…not even now, when it's the Winter. You won't see many swimmers or sunbathers, of course, but you'll still find plenty of people walking up and down the esplanade."

"That's too bad," said Harry. "Still, it sounds like it's worth a visit."

"There are bound to be plenty of deserted beaches in Australia," said Roger. "Given the fact that it is…you know…surrounded by oceans?"

"That's good to know," said Harry.

It was at this point during the ride that the teen-aged wizard leaned towards his best friend's ear and whispered a reminder that she was obligated to pay off a lost bet. Ron just happened to be looking back towards the rear bench seat as Hermione replied, "Lucky me" and kissed Harry on the cheek. Harry spotted his male friend's scowl, then looked out the car window and pointed.

"Hey, Ron, look…there's a Nando's," he stated, as the car turned off St. Kilda Road and headed east. "Mr. Granger, would you mind if we stopped for some take-away? Ron really likes their peri peri sauce."

"Are you boys hungry?" Emily asked.

"They shouldn't be," Hermione countered. "They just ate some take-away at the airport."

"But that was a couple of hours ago, and it's gotta be close to breakfast back home. So if my stomach's still on England's time…" Ron reasoned.

"No worries," Roger said, as he navigated the car towards a parking spot. "Do you need some cash?"

"No, I've got it…we'll be right back," said Harry, as Ron and he stepped out of the car.

"Sorry, about that," said Hermione. "I hope you don't think Harry was being rude."

"Well, it did seem a bit strange," her mother noted. "While we certainly weren't planning on company today, it's not as if the kitchen cupboards are bare."

"He asked Daddy to stop for our benefit," Hermione replied. "The easiest way to distract Ron is with food, and it does give the three of us a chance to talk privately before we arrive home."

"So are we going to talk privately about why Ron needed to be distracted from the fact that you just kissed Harry on the cheek?" Emily teased.

"No, that's not what we're going to talk about."

"And you're certain that your stomach isn't still on England time, Hermione?" her mother asked playfully.

"No, it certainly isn't."

"But you were rather fond of the peri peri sauce yourself, if I remember correctly," her father noted.

Hermione sighed. "I guess I'll have to take your word for it."

"Oh, that's right…you must not remember," her mother said.

"Not entirely, it seems," said Hermione, as he looked out the different car windows. "While I called it intuition, I was certain that we needed to fly into Melbourne to start our search. And now that we are here and we've found you…we're not that far from the house, are? And it's just off this commercial street?"

"Not bad…we're actually about five kilometers from home," Roger replied. "And it is just off this street, although the street name changes."

Hermione shook her head. "Everything is sitting so annoyingly on the edge of my brain," she complained. "Like a bad case of déjà vu, although…is it really déjà vu if you just can't remember seeing it?"

"I think it counts," her mother said, patting her knee supportively. "If it helps, you helped pick out this part of Melbourne for us."

"Really? The part of Melbourne with the dodgy prostitutes and drug users?"

"St Kilda isn't nearly as bad as your mother described it," Roger said with a smile. "You liked it because there are more magic-friendly shops and people here than in other parts of the city…something about the odd bit of magic not being as noticeable amongst all of those hippies and prostitutes and drug users."

"I was talking more about its reputation from the Sixties," Emily said defensively. "Besides, there is a big difference between St. Kilda and where we live in Malvern."

"Only to a degree…especially when compared with the outer suburbs," Roger countered.

"So you picked out a place to live just for me, even though you knew I wasn't going to be living here?" Hermione asked.

"It wasn't just for you," Emily replied.

"What about Lauriston?" her husband asked.

Emily shook her head and said, "Never mind."

"What?" Hermione asked.

"We're going to drive by a private all-girls day school called Lauriston Academy," said Roger. "It's only a few blocks from the house that we've been renting…would have been an easy walk for you."

"It's one of the best secondary schools for young women in Australia," her mother noted. "Especially when those young women are also young witches."

Hermione frowned. "Were we really working under the assumption that I wasn't going to return to England?"

Her mother sighed. "Let's just say that we argued to at least leave that option open…at least at first."

The Muggleborn witch looked down at her lap and rubbed her closed eyelids with her fingers.

"I can't believe that I was so stupid," she muttered.

Hermione's mum cocked her head to the side.

"You regret going back to England?" she asked.

"No, it's not that," Hermione said. "I can't believe that I was stupid enough to believe the cock-and-bull story that Moody and I came up with to replace the...how long was I actually here?"

"A little more than three weeks," her mother replied.

"Alright then...all that time last year," Hermione said. "I mean, if you just stop and think about it…of course I could have altered your memories enough for you to forget that you had a daughter, and make you think that your names were Monica and Wendell Wilkins, but…"

"Oh, Hermione!" Emily whispered, as she pulled her daughter into her hug. The older woman wiped a tear from her own eye and said, "No story telling until we're home, right?"

"Yes, I know…but really?" Hermione asked. "I would have also needed to have forged your passports, and figured out your bank accounts, and convinced Nancy at the surgery that you'd just run off without even saying good bye and given her notice on your behalf, and anticipated a hundred different bits of back story that you would have needed to live here under assumed names that you didn't realize were assumed…"

"It's not your fault, Dear," her mother said.

"It's certainly my fault that I considered the cover story good enough not to at least question it in my mind," Hermione countered.

"Maybe not questioning the murkier parts of the altered memory was part of the magic that was placed on you?" her father asked.

Hermione lifted her head and opened her eyes.

"A compulsion charm tied into the main memory alteration? Could be," she decided. "Who knows? I might have even suggested it to Mad-Eye beforehand..."

"They're out," Emily noted, pointing towards the front door of the restaurant.

Roger turned the key and fired up the car's ignition, only to frown when Harry and Ron walked away from the parked car with their take-away bags in hand.

"Now where are they off to?" he asked.

Hermione tilted her head as her two friends disappeared behind a building corner.

"Knowing Ron?" she asked. "They're probably searching for a safe place to pop to, so that he can get back here on his own."

"Doing that apparating thing?"

"Yeah."

"Hmmmph," said Roger, as he turned the car back off. Then he turned his head back towards his daughter and asked, "So really, Hermione…Wendell?"

The teen-aged witch couldn't help but laugh at her father's hurt expression.

"I actually did rationalize out that part of the altered memory," she stated. "Wendell is derived from the Germanic term for traveling. It seemed appropriate."

"And Monica, then?" her mother asked.

"Haven't a clue," Hermione admitted. "And I spent more time than I should have this past year trying to figure that out for myself. Maybe it was Mad-Eye's mum's name, or something?"

"Monica Moody," Emily said. "Well, you magical types do love your alliteration, don't you?"

Hermione's mother frowned when she spotted something close to hurt within her daughter's eyes.

"What's wrong, Sweetheart?" she asked. "Was it something I said?"

"No," Hermione quickly replied. "I mean…yes, but I'm certain you didn't mean anything by it…"

"What's that, dear?"

"You just distanced yourself from me, when you lumped me in with 'you magical types'."

"Oh, sorry," her mom said. "You're right that I didn't…it's just that the two worlds are so different and separate…you've said so many times yourself, Dear."

"That _is_ the case, at least in Britain," Hermione replied. "But it's supposed to be different here…a 'One House' place where magicals all non-magicals live side-by-side…a place where young witches can learn magic at day schools and still live at home with her parents…"

Her father chuckled. "Yes, _all-girl_ day schools where they wouldn't have met their male best friends."

"Speaking of which," her mother said, "Is there anything that you want to tell us about Harry or Ron while they're not here?"

Hermione thought for a moment, and then nodded.

"It's only been a few weeks since the Final Battle," she stated. "Harry lost his owl Hedwig, and Dobby, and his last link to his parents…Ron lost one of his older brothers. Traumatic stuff, and we're all still recovering physically and emotionally, but Harry…he's had it the worst."

"So… his reaction to the car chirping?" her father asked.

"Pretty much an everyday occurrence," Hermione admitted. "It's so hard…I want to be there for him, and it seems to help…it's hard to let him out of my sight, whether it's going off for take-away, or sleeping in a separate bedroom…"

"Has he gotten any professional help?" Emily asked.

Hermione shook her head. "He's got some potions to help with the physical healing, and sleeping potions to stop at least some of the nightmares, but…nothing like post-traumatic counseling, if that's what you're asking."

"Do you think that would help?"

"Absolutely," Hermione replied. "He should have had that kind of professional help all along, but stupid witches and wizards, thinking that all you need is a potion or two to set things right, and expecting Harry to live up to everyone else's expectations…or to go along with everyone's expectations for him, for that matter."

"How is that?"

Hermione snorted. "You know how they say that war is hell? Well, I would have gladly traded the last two weeks of 'peace' staying with Ron's family, in exchange for an extra two weeks of war."

"Something we should know about that?" asked Emily.

"Yes, but there's no time for full explanations," Hermione replied. "The most important thing is to try to keep calm, for Harry's sake. And that might require you to step in if I get too bossy. Or to keep Ron at a distance, for that matter…the fact is, neither of us really wanted him to come on this trip."

"Why's that, Dear?"

"Because Ron has an uncanny ability to set me off, which in turn sets Harry off," Hermione replied. "And because we're both sick of Ron complaining all the time, and because I don't think that Ron wanted to come with us in the first place."

"Well why is he here, then?" her father asked.

"Honestly? I think his mum decided that Ron should chaperone the two of us, once she failed to convince Harry that he didn't need to chaperone _me_, which came right after Ron failed to convince me that I really didn't need to rush to retrieve my parents in the first place."

"What's that, again?" Roger asked sharply.

"Sorry…I shouldn't have said that," Hermione replied. "Look, it's only been a few weeks, and emotions were running high all around…I'm sure that I'll even eventually come to regret some of the things that I said to Molly before we left. I just want to spend some time reconnecting with the both of you, and to figure out what happened to my memories, and maybe for some healing to take place, and for Harry and me to start to figure out where to go from here, without everyone thinking they already know what's best for us."

"Right, then," her father decided. "So try to keep things low key, keep the car chirps to a minimum, and no dispensing of career or relationship advice over the next few days."

Hermione frowned. "When did I say anything about relationship advice?"

Her mother smiled, and pulled her daughter into another side-hug as Ron and Harry reappeared and walked back towards the car.

"You actually had quite a lot to say about those two boys and your relationships last year," Emily stated. "And from that talk about deserted beaches, and the rear bench seat flirty whispering about lost bets that need to be paid off on deserted beaches? It gives your mother ideas…and a fair bit of hope!"

Hermione's cheeks flushed red at her mother's comment, enough for Harry to quietly ask if something was wrong once he climbed back onto the rear bench seat with his bag of take-away. The teen-aged witch shook her head, and quietly replied that her mother had just asked embarrassing questions about sanitary products and monthlies in front of her father.

The fact that Hermione felt comfortable enough to use that as an excuse, combined with the fact that Harry didn't flinch or giggle when that excuse was provided, gave Hermione's mother one more reason to hope that her daughter was smart enough to make the right relationship decisions without any unsolicited advice.


	3. Ch3: Not the University of Woolloomooloo

**Little Swimmers  
><strong>A multi-chaptered somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

**A/N: **This gets posted less than a week after the last update because it was ready to post now (in my un-beta'd opinion), and I'd feel like I was depriving my readers if I just sat on it a few more days just to manage expectations or to bleed a few more reviews from the second chapter. Please don't expect this kind of turnaround in the future.

And it was never a question of _**if**_ a Monty Python reference or two would show up in this story. It was just a question of _**when**_. Crack tubes!**  
><strong>

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**oo00OO00oo**

**Chapter 3: Not the University of Woolloomooloo**

_24 Woodmason Street  
>Malvern, Victoria<em>

There was more already seen for Hermione to see as her father made a left turn onto Glenferries Road, and her mother pointed out "their" corner coffee shop.

"So you've turned into coffee drinkers?" the teen-aged witch asked her parents.

"You developed a fondness for morning coffee yourself last year, Sweetheart," her father noted. "And it's still tea only at home."

"Half the time you order tea in this country, you're served a cup of hot water and tea bag," her mother added. "Hardly seems worth the three dollars."

"At least I kind of know why I'm not surprised," Hermione muttered.

Harry chuckled, and added, "And now we also know why you kept that tin of instant coffee in your mokeskin pouch?"

Hermione shook her head, and was only a half-second behind her mother's identification of the wide, quiet residential street at the next intersection as "their" street. Ron asked why they weren't turning onto that street if it was theirs, prompting Roger to explain the local practice of using "hook turns" to accommodate the trams that shared the same roadways.

The home that Roger and Emily Granger had been renting for the past year was located at the end of a long cul-de-sac that was shaded by mature gum trees. The fact that these gum trees were evergreens and had retained their leaves during the Australian winter would have been more noticeable to Ron and Hermione had they not just traveled from an English summer. Harry's landscaping experience on Privet Drive allowed him to pick up on that fact, though, and to imagine leaves and flowers on the deciduous bare-branched trees and shrubs that were mixed in with the evergreens. The overall effect from one house to the next was of a relaxed, lush, slightly-overgrown landscape…something quite different from the sharp angles and regimented lines of Little Whinging's overly-maintained gardens.

A narrow brick-paved laneway ran alongside the Granger's semi-detached Edwardian-era home, providing access to the detached garage along the back of their property. Hermione's father played it safe, and announced that he was going to do some more magic before he pressed the remote control button that engaged the garage door opener. Harry winced at this warning, recognizing both why Roger had provided it, as well as the underlying need. Hermione reached down and squeezed Harry's knee in an offering of silent sympathy.

A small side door provided access from the garage into the fenced-in rear garden. Harry complimented the Grangers on the landscaping as they crossed a lawned area towards rear of the house. Emily told him that he didn't need to be so polite; the rental property had very little actual garden within the garden area, and the landlord was keen on keeping the landscaping low-maintenance.

There were two different outdoor living areas that separated lawn from the house proper. The first area had a retractable awning providing shade for a slightly raised wooden deck, a gas barbeque, a freestanding fireplace, and some patio furniture. Closer to the house was a smaller, glassed-in porch that could be closed off either when the weather got a bit too cold, or when the mozzies and flies got a bit too thick.

The door leading into the kitchen from this porch was unlocked. Emily explained that they usually locked their doors when they went out, even though their neighborhood was almost safe enough to not require it, and noted that they had been in a bit of a rush to get to Flinders Station. Once inside, she told the boys that they could leave their take-away bags on the kitchen table while they completed the short tour of the small one-level home. Nobody was surprised that Ron was a bit slower to comply with this request than Harry.

The rear of the house had an open floor plan that was obviously much younger than the house itself. The high ceilings, wood flooring and fireplace were original, however, and gave the integrated kitchen/living area the same kind of Edwardian-Era charm that the Grangers had enjoyed back in England. The two bedrooms were in the front, separated by a main entrance that actually faced the side laneway, rather than the street itself. The master bedroom was closer to the living area, with a corner fireplace that shared a chimney with its twin on the other side of the wall. The second bedroom, positioned at the front end of the relatively narrow structure, had windows that looked out onto Woodmason Street. But it was the floor-to-ceiling bookcases inside this second bedroom that really caught Hermione's eye, and produced a very girlish scream.

"Oh, my God, you saved them!" the teen-aged witch exclaimed, as she rushed into the room and ran her hand across the nearest row of book spines.

"You're surprised?" her father half-asked. "Because, you know…you were the one that shrunk them all down and brought them here."

"I thought they were lost in the house fire," Hermione said, shaking her head.

"You remember the fire, but not the rush to pack the books and pictures and other irreplaceables?" her mum asked.

Hermione frowned. "Wait, when did the house and surgery get torched?"

"Two days after we picked you up from King's Cross," her mother said. "You were with us at the time...it was before we left for Australia."

Roger asked, "When did you think the arsons occurred, Hermione?"

"Some fuzzy period of time after I supposedly altered your memories and sent you both off to Australia with barely a packed suitcase each," said Hermione. "I remember staying alone in the house after you left...I was studying at the library one night just to get out of that house. On the way home, I heard the sirens and could see the dark mark in the sky even before I turned the corner. Didn't dare get any closer, so I turned around and ran."

"Yeah, that's what you told us," Ron added. "And you didn't trust using the floo, or the Knight Bus, so you rode a Muggle bus out to Ottery St. Catchpole, and walked to our house from there with only the clothes on your back…and in your pouch, I guess."

Hermione nodded in agreement, at the same time she wanted to shake her head because the story was now obviously wrong. She then turned her attention towards a desk in one corner of the room that had three very large computer screens sitting side-by-side. She walked towards the desk, put her hand on top of the large leather-upholstered office chair, and asked, "So is this the second bedroom, or the first office?"

"It started off as your bedroom," her mum replied. "But after you left, your father got a bit bored, so…"

"We left the UK too quickly to think about applying for work visas," her father explained. "So we entered on tourist visas, which didn't allow us to work…or to at least do things that the local government considers to be work…"

"Tracking our investments and actively managing our stock portfolio was his justification for buying this high speed computer and paying for high speed internet," Emily interrupted. "Not that it gets used for that purpose all that often…"

Ron frowned, and used the incomplete sentence to ask whether there was more home to tour before they could return to the take-away. Roger was quick to say that the tour was complete, and ushered everyone out of the front bedroom.

"Something wrong, Dad?" Hermione asked.

Her father shook her head. "Your mum doesn't think too much of my main source of income over the past year."

"What's that?" Ron asked.

"On-line poker games," Emily replied, with a distasteful tone in her voice. "All that education and hard work building up a successful surgery…to what end?" she asked. "To become a professional gambler?"

"Really?" Hermione gasped.

"It's certainly paid the bills around here, and kept us from dipping into your uni account," her father said with a shrug.

"That's awesome, Mr. Granger!" Ron emphatically declared, as he pulled back a kitchen chair and sat down in front of his latest meal. "So how do you actually win money against that computer-thingy?"

"I don't gamble against the computer," said Roger. "I use the computer to play poker against other on-line gamblers."

Ron was too busy eating to ask how that worked, giving Roger a chance to briefly explain to the others that he also played live poker games at the large downtown casino, and that neither the on-line games nor the live buy-in events kept them from traveling to Cambodia on three separate occasions on dental volunteering trips. Emily did concede that point, but still thought the whole thing a bit unseemly, especially since dentists were high on the list of desired professions for the Australian government. They could have easily gotten work visas once they had gotten to know some of the local dental professionals on those trips. They also had the money to at least buy a share of a local surgery once the homeowner's insurance and business insurance money had come through, but had hesitated. Roger claimed that the hesitation was due to the uncertainty over Hermione's status, and what had been happening the past year within Britain. Emily thought that it had more to do with her husband's passion for taking down large poker pots.

The discussion drifted towards sleeping arrangements while Ron and Harry finished their meals and Roger chilled the celebratory bottle of sparkling wine. Emily's first proposal that Hermione use her "old" bedroom while Harry and Ron share the master bedroom was quickly shot down by Harry. Hermione might have suggested that she just share her bedroom with Ron and Harry, had she not known better. Her parents were just conservative enough to insist on gender-segregated sleeping, and no amount of discussion over how much time the three teens had shared a single tent would sway their "not in my house" sense of propriety. Roger said that the two couches in the living area were comfortable enough to sleep on, but Harry thought it best if Hermione's parents had at least two walls separating their bed from Ron's snoring. He insisted that they would be more than comfortable sleeping on the enclosed deck. When Emily brought up the cold weather, and the fact that the evening's low temperature was projected to be 6C (46F), Harry said that he doubted it would be colder than their drafty Gryffindor dormitory during Scottish winters. Roger noted that Emily and he had purchased some camping equipment, but thought it would be rather uncomfortable sleeping on the porch floor, even with mattress pads underneath the sleeping bags. Harry countered that argument by noting that they were all capable of casting cushioning charms that would last the night.

Talk of cushioning charms reminded Hermione that they hadn't phoned their location in to the Magical Surveillance Office. When she asked if she could use the telephone, Emily stated that they didn't have a land line within the rental, and instead pulled out her mobile for her daughter to use. Hermione drifted from the kitchen into the living area to hear better, but didn't go far enough to keep everyone else from hearing her end of the subsequent conversation.

"Hello? Is this the Magical Surveillance Office?

[…..]

"Yes, my name is Hermione Granger, and I'd like to call in a location where it's safe for my friends and me to do magic."

[…..]

"Because it's where my parents live, and under the law, immediate family members of Muggleborn witches are allowed to know about the Wizarding World?"

[…..]

"Sorry, I forgot…that's the law in Britain, at least."

[…..]

"24 Woodmason Street, Malvern, Victoria."

[…..]

"No, it's just my two parents living here."

[…..]

"Yes, I'm at that location now."

[…..]

"No, I'm using my mother's mobile."

[…..]

"Yes, I'll hold."

Hermione turned back towards the kitchen area and rolled her eyes.

"Telephone customer service," she muttered. "An obvious downside any witch or wizard who is considering joining mainstream society…Hello?"

[…..]

"Yes, I'm still here."

[…..]

"Really? I did?" she asked. "Well, yes, of course it does. I'm sorry…it's just that I've been away at school, and didn't know if I needed to reauthorize this address."

[…..]

"That's good to know. Sorry for taking your time…Yes, good…hello?"

Hermione turned her head so that she could look directly at her mother's mobile.

"She didn't need to be that snippy about it," the teenager said, as she walked back towards the kitchen table.

"Something wrong, Dear?" her mother asked.

"This address is already cleared for magic use," Hermione replied. "I called it in last year."

"Excellent," said Ron, as he drew out his wand and levitated his take-away wrappings into the garbage bin.

"No need to be lazy about it, Ronald," Hermione scolded.

"But you just said…"

"Which doesn't mean that you should adopt bad habits, or next thing you know you'll be doing that out in public."

"Yes, Mum," Ron whined.

"C'mon, lazy, let's get our rucksacks and set up," said Harry, as he rose from the table and deposited his trash into the garbage bin by hand.

Hermione followed the two teens out onto the porch so that she could retrieve her rucksack and set up in her bedroom. Her father also headed outside, with the goal of retrieving the camping gear from the garage. It didn't take her long to wish that her mother had joined in on that search.

**oo00OO00oo**

Knowing that his wife would want to have more than a few minutes to interrogate their daughter while she unpacked, Roger took a lengthy amount of time to search for the camping gear that was sitting right there, on an eye-level garage shelf within a clearly identified box. By the time he finally returned to the porch, Harry and Ron had emptied out their rucksacks, expanded their trunks to their full size, and converted the porch into a rather cozy sleeping space. Unfortunately, they had at the same time converted the ambient atmosphere into something far less pleasant.

"Bloody hell!" Roger muttered, as he dropped the bags and mats, then waved the air in front of his nose. "Which one of you had the dead animal in their packs?"

Harry looked up from his opened truck, shook his head, then turned and aimed a spell at Ron's arse.

"Hey!" the red-hair wizard protested. "What did you do that for?"

"Because you obviously didn't replace your anti-fart potion," said Harry. He turned back towards his trunk and began rummaging through his collection of potion bottles and vials. Finding the one that he was looking for, he pulled it out and tossed it towards his friend.

"Here you go."

Ron caught the bottle, looked down at the label, and squinted.

"Why all the grief about _my_ gas if _you_ needed a potion to cure the same problem?" he asked.

"I didn't," Harry explained. "I just added it to the end of my list."

"But it's got your name on the bottle."

"Yes, that's how proper prescriptions are filled."

"So you _do_ need fart medicine!" Ron declared.

"No, I pretended that I needed that medicine, so that I could get what I knew you needed, but wouldn't ask for."

"You pretended to need fart medicine?"

"Yeah."

"How do you pretend to fart?" Ron asked. "Did you stick your hand in your armpit and flap, or something?"

Harry turned towards Hermione's dad, and was pleased to see that the frustrating conversation was at least entertaining their audience. He then shook his head, let out a big sigh, and said, "I think that the healer would have seen through that kind of faked symptom, Ron...I just told her that it's an occasional problem."

"Ah."

Roger tried to wipe the smile off his face long enough to raise a serious point.

"You know," he said, "As a medical professional I'm obligated to lecture you two on the dangers of taking another person's prescription medicines."

Harry shook his head. "The healer said that it's an over-the-counter potion here in Australia."

"You mean that I didn't have to bin it at the airport?" Ron asked.

"Nope."

"It's still not a good idea," said Roger. "Ron's flatulence might be symptomatic of a larger medical issue."

Harry shook his head and declared, "The only thing it's symptomatic of is Ron's tendency to inhale large quantities of air along side all that greasy food."

"If it was so stinky in here, then why didn't you smell it?" the red-haired wizard asked.

"Maybe because after all those years sharing a dorm with you, my nose has burned-out and become desensitized to that specific smell?"

"I still don't think that it's that bad," Ron said defensively.

"Well it clearly is," Harry replied. "And it's another reason why I thought the porch would work out just fine for us." He then turned towards Roger and said, "Wouldn't want to impose on your hospitality."

"No worries," the older man said automatically (and without any degree of sincerity).

"So take a swig from that bottle, already," Harry told Ron, before he dived back into his trunk and pulled out a small plastic object. A twist-off cap revealed a solid soap-like cylinder that flooded the porch with a peppermint scent.

"Never-ending deodorizer," Harry explained, as he placed the object next to the kitchen door. "Worth its weight in galleons."

"But not worth driving me barmy," Ron complained.

"You don't like the smell of peppermint?" Roger asked.

"Nah, I love it," Ron replied. "It just makes me hungry for mint candies."

"Ah," said Roger. The much fresher air allowed him to take a breath and turn his curiosity to the airline identification tag hanging from Harry's ruck sack.

"So, any particular reason why you three flew Air India?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "It was a hundred pounds per ticket cheaper than any of the other airlines," he explained. "They also had one of the better total flight times."

"Didn't care too much for their meals," Ron noted.

"Well , I'm sorry that I didn't also buy your mum a ticket, so that she could cook for you in the airplane's galley!" Harry snapped.

The talk about purchased airplane tickets led Hermione's dad to insist that he reimburse any of the travel-related costs. He didn't want to take no for an answer, but Harry was just as adamant about insisting that there was no need for any reimbursements. Ron tried to support Harry's side by saying that it wasn't really Harry's money in the first place, since it was raised from selling off Black Family antique furniture. The black-haired teen really didn't care his friend's cavalier attitude about money that wasn't his own, but did build on that point by claiming that it was really ugly furniture to begin with, and that he wasn't about to pass up on a chance to sell a (mostly) bigoted pureblood family's furniture in order to finance a trip on Muggle airplanes to retrieve his friend's Muggle parents.

Roger really wanted to continue offering his side of the discussion, but it was clear that Harry wasn't going to easily shift off of his decision. And he had a weak memory of PTSD treatment plans that encouraged patients to feel more in control of their lives by making small decisions for themselves. So he retreated, and offered to table the discussion to a later date and time.

Spotting Hermione and her mother return to the kitchen area, Harry gestured towards the door window and suggested that they join them. Hermione's father glanced through that same window and noticed both the wide smile on his wife's face, and the intensely red blush on his daughter's cheeks. Wondering what the heck had happened in that bedroom (but realizing that he wasn't likely to learn until a future point in time), Mr. Granger opened the kitchen door and waved it back and forth a few times to equalize the peppermint levels before walking back inside.

**oo00OO00oo**

_Fifteen minutes previous..._

At first, Hermione thought that she would have the first opportunity to tease and/or embarrass, when her mum walked right past her and took a seat in front of her father's computer.

"Honestly, Mother?" she asked, using a faux judgmental tone of voice. "You're more interested in sitting in front of that computer, when I've been away for a year and it's your first real opportunity to pester me with embarrassing questions about my personal life?"

The teen-aged witch got really nervous, really fast, when her mother spun the office chair around and combined an evil-parent smile with some waggling eyebrows.

"I don't try to embarrass the computer," Emily declared, echoing an earlier explanation within that very room. "I just use the computer to embarrass my daughter."

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

"It's a little joke, Sweetie," her mother said. "Go on and start your unpacking...I'll be ready in a few minutes."

"Ready to do what?"

"To do what you begged and pleaded us to do just as soon as you came back for us...especially if you came with one or both of your friends."

The way that her mother spun back around and began to furiously type on the keyboard suggested to Hermione that counterarguments would be pointless. So she settled on making a one-off snarky comment as she set her rucksack on top of the bed and began to empty it.

"You're going to use to full advantage the fact that I can't remember anything about my last trip here, aren't you?" she asked.

"Of course, Dear," Emily said sweetly, from behind the high-backed office chair.

Hermione glanced over her mum's shoulder in an effort to make some sense out of the different windows that were popping up on the computer desktop. Emily shooed her away with the warning that if she hadn't unpacked by the time they left her bedroom, then Harry and Ron would want to know why. Of course, she had forgotten just how powerful unpacking charms could be...it took only a few seconds for trunks to be expanded and clothes transferred to closets. But then Hermione's curiosity came to her mother's rescue, when a certain magical guide book was spotted on one of the bookshelves.

"That's the book that was recommended to us at the airport!" the teen-aged witch declared.

"Yes, Dear," Emily replied from behind the chair.

Hermione walked over to the bookshelf and retrieved the book in question.

"How did you and dad get hold of a copy?" she asked. "It's supposedly only sold in magic-friendly bookshops to magic-users."

"You picked it up last June," her mother replied.

"Oh...well, I guess that I would have done that, wouldn't I?"

"Yes, Dear."

"That's too bad," Hermione muttered, as she scanned the book's table of contents. "This was going to be my excuse for dragging the boys into the local shops."

"You could always throw it into the trash, and buy a new copy?"

"Mother!" Hermione hissed. "You know I'd never do such a thing!"

"Yes, Dear," Emily replied by rote.

The chattering sound of an ink-jet printer drew Hermione's focus away from the chair back.

"Ah, ah, ah, no peeking!" her Mom declared, as she snatched the print-out from the printer tray and pressed it to her chest.

"What is that?" Hermione asked, as she glanced back at the computer screen for some clues. Unfortunately, her mother had already switched on the screen saver, and risen from her chair.

"This, Hermione, is an on-going personality survey," Emily declared. She pulled a clipboard and ballpoint pen from a side table, and slipped the one-page print out under the clip, and added, "There are over one hundred individual questions; you set this program up so that it randomly picks ten at a time."

"No point in questioning whether I really did program a computer to do that?"

"Not really, although it should be obvious that your father and I would have had a hard time coming up with some of these questions on our own," her mother said.

"So what's the goal of this personality survey that I must have thought I needed to take?"

"To track changes in your feelings and opinions on certain topics," Emily declared. "You said that it would...let me see if I can remember it exactly...you said that it would be '_a parent-neutral analytical method for identifying any anomalously sharp deviations from baseline emotional states or conditions that might be the result of undesirable external factors or influences_'."

"Oh, shit!" Hermione whispered. "I must have suspected that someone had been feeding me potions."

"Yes, Dear," Emily said. "And language, Dear."

Her daughter shook her head. "Given what certain potions could do, I'd say that the language was entirely appropriate."

Mrs. Granger shook her head as she gestured towards her clipboard and said, "Well, if we can defer our debate over that point, shall we...?"

Hermione took a deep breath, then let it out and nodded her head.

"Right...here we go, then," her mother said, looking down at the clipboard. "Please respond to the following statement using a five point scale, with five indicating strong agreement and one indicating strong disagreement. _Ronald Weasley is worthy of a girlfriend's love_."

"What?" Hermione hissed.

"Just as I said, on a five point scale..._Ronald Worthy is worth of a girlfriend's love_."

"That's an odd question. Is this some generic girlfriend, or me in particular?" Hermione asked.

"You designed the survey, Dear, and I believe that it's '_a girlfriend's love_,' and not '_my love_'."

"Oh, well...if I'm not the girlfriend and you're asking about how I feel today, I'd have to say no."

"Is that a two for disagree, or a one for strongly disagree?"

"Two."

"Two it is," said Emily, marking down the response. "Now using that same scale..._Harry Potter is worthy of a girlfriend's love_."

"Oh, no...this is the road we're going down?" Hermione whined.

Emily reached across to where her daughter was sitting on the bed and patted her knee.

"You wouldn't have developed these questions if you hadn't thought there was a need."

Hermione closed her eyes, shook her head, and asked, "How often did we do this survey while I was here?"

"Once a day, Dear."

"Bugger me!"

"Language!"

"Five!"

"What?" Emily asked.

"My answer to that question is five, strongly agree," Hermione replied, in a near-whisper.

"Very good, very good...same point scale for _Ronald Weasley is worthy of a friend's loyalty_."

"One and a half?"

"It's either one or two, Sweetie."

"One, then."

"_Harry Potter is worthy of a friend's loyalty_?"

"Five plus?"

Emily looked up from her clipboard and arched an eyebrow.

"Five, then."

"So now we're on to question five," Hermione's mum declared. "Using a five point scale, with five being extremely likely and one being extremely unlikely, assess the following scenario. _Ron Weasley is dragged into a broom closet by an attractive witch who is not his current girlfriend. This attractive witch rips open her robes and shoves her titties into his face_..."

"Language, Mum!" Hermione chided.

Emily laughed. "You came up with the wording of these questions, Dear, not me."

"Let me guess, then...you are asking what are the odds that Ron would pull back from the non-girlfriend's breasts that had been shoved into his face, and run away?"

"Pretty much spot on," Mrs. Granger said with a smile.

"Slim to none."

"That's not an option, Dear..it's five for highly likely..."

"One," Hermione declared. "Not to say that the response would be much different for any of the hormone-fueled teen-aged boys in that castle..."

"Question six," Mrs. Granger interjected. "The odds that Harry Potter would resist rubbing his face against those same non-girlfriend breasts?"

"I thought that giving odds wasn't an available option?"

"Same point scale response..."

"Four," Hermione replied.

"Only a four?" her mum asked with a smile. "So our Harry isn't a saint, after all?"

Hermione giggled. "Objectively, I have to dock that saint a point for still having teen-aged boy hormones."

"Not necessarily a bad thing," Emily said with a smirk. "Question seven...on a five point scale with five corresponding to very excited and one corresponding to severe nausea...describe your emotional response to the thought of Harry Potter rubbing his face against your own breasts..."

"Mother!" Hermione shrieked, testing the strength of her silencing charm as she ripped the clipboard free from her mother's hands and examined the printed questions.

"I can't believe that I would actually use that question with the expectation that you'd ask me to reply...of course, you've now had an entire year to modify these question to suit your own opinions..."

"That's true," her mum admitted with a laugh.

"It doesn't say whether he has a girlfriend when I shove him into a broom closet, straddle his thighs, rip open my robes, and shove my titties into his face."

"The question also doesn't go into that amount of smutty detail, either," her mother slyly noted.

Hermione sighed. "No it doesn't, and no..._he_ doesn't."

"Doesn't what, dear?"

"Harry doesn't currently have a girlfriend," Hermione replied.

"Really?" her mum asked (with eyes that were sparkling with delight). "Last year you said that Ron's sister and he were...at least until he nobly broke it off because he didn't want her to be targeted..."

"That's true enough, although of course I don't remember telling you that."

A passing thought turned Emily's facial expressions into something far more serious.

"Did she...survive the war?" she asked.

Hermione nodded her head. "Yes, she did...although she's one of those who survived the war better than they've been surviving the peace."

"How so?" Emily asked.

"She expected things to pick right back up between Harry and her after it ended," Hermione explained. "Wasn't even close to being subtle about what she said she needed and felt she deserved."

"So I'm guessing Harry disagreed with her assessed needs and desires?"

"You could say that," Hermione replied. "Might be closer to the truth to say that Harry thought it was too soon to talk about needs and desires when we were still burying the dead and recovering from our own mental and physical wounds."

Emily thought for a few moments, then shrugged. "Well, I have heard of people seeking out casual sex in the immediate aftermath of traumatic experiences. They called it 'terror-sex' after the Twin Towers...same for the London subway bombings..."

Hermione asked, "So were there any 'terror-marriages' back then?"

"What?"

"That's what Ginny wanted," Hermione explained. "She figured that since it was inevitable that Harry and she would get married, that it would be better to do it right away. Because Ginny's mum was terribly depressed, you see, and planning her daughter's wedding would be a sure-fire way to raise Molly's spirits, and to get her thinking more about the future than about the immediate past."

"Are you fucking serious? Getting married just to make the fucking mother-in-law feel better?" Emily asked, as the clipboard dropped from her hands.

The situation was serious enough for Hermione nod her head, rather than chide her mum's choice of words.

"Of all the horrible, manipulative things..." her mother said. "Please tell me that she was explaining this fucked-up logic just to you, rather than to Harry?"

"That's exactly what she said to me," Hermione admitted. "Right before I more or less told her she was using fucked-up logic. I don't know how much of her reasoning she subsequently shared with Harry...I don't dare ask him about it, for fear that he'd wonder why I didn't give him a warning."

"So you didn't warn him?"

"Not exactly," Hermione admitted. "I was completely on-board with the sentiment that it was too early to be talking about marriages. I told Harry that...and I also told everyone that when things really hit the Weasley Family Fan."

"What's that?"

Hermione shook her head, not feeling up to explaining the inside joke.

"Harry didn't react positively to whatever Ginny said to him in private," she stated. "She blamed his reaction on me, and really threw a fit when Harry announced that he was going to come to Australia with me to look for you two. She said that they were through if he chose me over her, and that there wouldn't be a marriage. Her Mum echoed that in stereo."

"And that's when Ron's mum insisted that he be allowed to tag along as some kind of chaperone?"

A thin smile formed on Hermione's face. "That was actually the next morning, once things had calmed down a bit. And she didn't openly identify that as Ron's job assignment, but..."

Emily used the small gap in the conversation to reach down and retrieve her clipboard. She really wasn't in a mood to work through these heavy discussion topics right at that moment. It was clearly territory that she definitely thought needed to be discussed (with both her daughter and Harry), but did it have to be discussed on the day that she was reunited with the daughter that she feared she'd never see again?

Hoping her daughter felt the same way, Emily glanced towards the locked, spell-silenced door and let out a breath.

"They'll be wondering what we're up to before too long," she stated. "And wondering why we're both teetering on becoming teary-eyed emotional wrecks."

Hermione nodded in agreement. "I'd rather not have to explain why, especially while Ron is within earshot."

"Well, then...perhaps completing this survey would serve as an emotional palette cleanser?" Emily asked.

Her daughter rolled her eyes for what must have been the tenth time over the past ten minutes.

"Go on, then," she said.

"Excellent," Emily said brightly. "Let's see, we're still on question seven...a score for the idea of Harry Potter rubbing his face against your chest?"

"Four," Hermione replied, fighting off a blush.

"Dare I ask the follow-up survey question that places Ron in that same position."

"Better."

"_Better_?" Emily asked with alarm.

"Yeah, as in _better get a bucket, I'm going to throw up_."

"You, and your father, and your Python," Hermione's mum sighed. "I'll just write down a score of one for your answer. Is there more behind that response than just your anger over him not wanting you to come find us?"

"Yes, although I should think that reason alone would be sufficient."

"Excellent," said Emily. She looked down at the clipboard and said, "Number nine, there is no number nine..."

"It's actually six there is no number six."

"That's only if you're teaching philosophy at the University of Woolloomooloo, Dear."

Hermione stood and loudly declared, "Australia, Australia, Australia, We Love You, Amen!"

"Yes, well, your father and I certainly hope that turns out to be the case," Emily said with a smile. "Now, that just leaves question ten...on a ten inch scale, just how large is Harry Potter's penis?"

"MOTHER! THAT IS NOT A SURVEY QUESTION!"

Emily Granger rose from her chair, placed the clipboard on a shelf, and walked towards the bedroom door. The smug smile on her face sprung from thinking that the survey questions (real and improvised) had shifted her daughter's mood away from the angst and the justifiable anger. The fact that Hermione's answers to those embarrassing questions had also fallen in line with the responses that she had previously provided, just before she'd returned to Britain, added just a little extra fuel to her burning smile.

With cheeks burning red, Hermione rushed from the bed to the bookshelf and snatched the clipboarded survey. Her _Incendio_ spell burned the copy paper just as brightly and as completely as a piece of parchment would have burned...but not until after she'd taken another glance at the printed questions and hand-written answers. There actually had been a ninth question, and a different tenth question; they both followed the survey pattern, and neither had come close to her mum's smutty bit of improvisation.

She had to give her mum credit, though...she'd gotten her to reveal far more than she had wanted to about her boy problems, and the last few questions had brightened her mood even as they had brightened her cheeks. That blush deepened even more as Hermione followed her mum back to the kitchen, and wondered what the reaction would have been had she declared herself to be perfectly capable of providing an accurate answer to that final question.


	4. Chapter 4: The Self-Addressed Letter

**Little Swimmers  
><strong>A multi-chaptered somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

**A/N: **Thanks again to my Aussie readers for their help and suggestions, and for Alix33 for her imminent corrections of this un-beta'd update.**  
><strong>

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**oo00OO00oo**

**Chapter 4: The Self-Addressed Letter**

_24 Woodmason Street  
>Malvern, Victoria<em>

Deciding that the bottle of sparkling wine had chilled long enough, Roger invited the three teenagers to have a seat in the living area while he popped the cork and his wife gathered some stemware from the kitchen cupboards. Hermione's cheeks were still flushed from the final survey question, prompting Ron to ask if something was wrong.

"Not really," Hermione replied. "Mum was just asking some embarrassing questions about my monthlies."

Ron's nose scrunched up. "Way too much information there, Hermione."

"Well, you asked!" the teen-aged witch snapped.

Harry's wink when he caught her eye lowered Hermione's annoyance level; menstrual cycle mentions had driven Ron out of the tent and given them the space for private conversation on more than one occasion.

Looking to change the subject, the red-haired wizard noticed a thick envelope sitting on the fireplace mantle and said, "Hey, Hermione…there's that letter you sent to yourself!"

The Muggleborn glanced towards the fireplace and nodded in agreement.

"That does look like my handwriting, doesn't it?" she asked.

"That's it?" Ron asked incredulously. "Somebody check for polyjuice...the real Hermione would have ripped it open already."

Harry snorted. "Yeah, right. When's the last time that Hermione ripped open an envelope without thoroughly inspecting it for jinxes or booby-traps?"

"Fourth Year," the teen-aged witch whispered, as she rubbed the back of her hands and mentally compared the pain of undiluted bulbotuber pus to repeated applications of the _Cruciatus_ curse.

"Shite...sorry!" Harry whispered.

"What? Something I said?" Ron asked.

"No, something that I said," Harry replied, reaching out to place a hand on Hermione's shoulder. She turned towards him and offered a thin smile.

"Doesn't take much, does it?" she asked.

Harry let a wry chuckle escape from his mouth and shook his head.

Channeling his daughter's thoughts (and thinking back towards the car alarm incident), Roger announced that the cork was about to pop just before it did, gently (and safely) drawing the teens' attention.

"C'mon," Hermione said, as she rubbed the backs of her hands against her jeans and walked towards the kitchen table.

"Everything okay?" Roger asked, pouring the sparkling wine into the row of glasses that his wife had laid out.

His daughter nodded as she hooked an arm around her mother's waist. "Just reminding myself to focus on the present," she explained.

"The celebratory happy present," Harry added, as Ron and he joined the three Grangers around the table.

"Hear, hear," Hermione's mum stated. "Grab a glass...sorry that we don't have the proper stemware for everyone."

"No worries," said Harry, as he grabbed a wine glass that had been commandeered into service.

"_No worries_, he says," Roger snickered. "Not a full day on the ground, and already he's speaking Australian!"

Mrs. Granger cleared her throat and gave her husband a pointed look.

"Right, then," he replied (having successfully translated his wife's non-verbal communication). Hermione's father looked down at his filled champagne glass and let out a deep breath.

"We bought this bottle almost a year ago, on the way home from dropping Hermione off at the airport," he began. "I immediately began thinking about what I would say and how we would toast our daughter's safe return, but stopped, for fear of jinxing ourselves. So I'm afraid I don't have anything eloquent prepared."

"Oh, Daddy," Hermione sighed, "It doesn't matter."

"You're right," Roger replied. "What matters is that our prayers were answered...so I propose a toast to Harry and Ron, and to all of the others whose help, support, guidance, and sacrifice allowed this happiest of homecomings to take place."

"To Harry and Ron," Emily agreed, raising her glass next to her husband's.

Tears welled in Hermione's eyes as she looked to her left towards Harry, then to her right towards Ron. She smiled, lifted her glass and said, "To Harry and Ron."

Harry caught Ron's eye, and the red-haired wizard nodded. Raising his glass, the black-haired wizard then added, "And to all of the others."

Glasses were clinked, wine was sipped, and glasses were set down on the kitchen table, enabling a second round of emotion-filled embraces to take place.

Once the glasses were re-filled Ron insisted that the second toast be made to Hermione, confessing that he had secretly admitted to Harry early on in their journey that they wouldn't have lasted two days without her. As a hint of embarrassment tinged Hermione's cheeks, Harry confirmed both Ron's story, and the truth behind it. Once the second toast was made Harry completed the circle by offering a third toast to Hermione's parents, for raising such an an amazing daughter. That really reddened Hermione's cheeks, and got another round of hugs going.

Ron felt a little out of place, and also felt a little uncomfortable when Roger and Emily started to talk about now having the time to get to know her daughter's closest friends and classmates. Once again looking at Hermione's self-addressed letter as a way of changing the conversation, he walked over to the fireplace, took the letter off of the mantle, and offered it to her.

"So what do you say, Hermione?" he asked. "I think we're all interested in what you wrote to yourself."

"Careful of what you wish for, Mate," Harry muttered to himself.

The Muggleborn witch ignored the comment as she looked at the A4 envelope. The risk that it was booby-trapped, or otherwise deserving of special treatment was obviously low, given both its chain-of-custody and the way that Ron had handled it. But this didn't keep Hermione from taking hold of the envelope by its corners, or from acting as if it were a delicate object that deserved to be handled with white gloves. Flipping it over to the sealed back flap, she looked for (and found) her personal symbology of the Golden Trio™ in the lower left corner: the female gender symbol, bisected by a horizontal line that was arrow-capped on either end. The slight resemblance of this mark to the Deathly Hallows sign caused her to chuckle.

"What?" Ron asked.

"Nothing," Hermione replied, slipping the letter into the back pocket of her jeans.

"You're not going to open it?"

"Maybe later," she replied.

"Don't trust us?" Ron asked. "Or don't trust yourself enough over what you might have said?"

"It has nothing to do with whether I trust you or myself, Ronald," Hermione replied. "Having a pretty good idea of how I, myself, think, I'm guessing that this letter will include answers to challenge questions that are rather…personal."

"What…like what's your greatest desire?"

"No, I'm talking about really personal questions," Hermione replied. "Questions with answers that only I know and I am too embarrassed to share with others."

"Like what?"

"Ron, don't be a berk," said Harry. "If she actually gave you an example, we'd be half way towards figuring out the embarrassing answer."

"But we're all friends or family here, right?"

Harry let out a deep breath.

"Maybe it'd be easier for you to understand if you could put yourself in Hermione's shoes?" he asked. "What if you wrote yourself a letter, and used that kind of challenge question as proof that you actually were the letter writer?"

"Yeah? Don't think it could be anything that bad."

"Really?" Harry asked. "Even if the letter provided details on, say… why you brought a box of ton tongue toffees into the Gryffindor boys' shower?"

Ron's cheeks instantly reddened and puffed out, like a balloon about to burst.

"You bastard!" the red-haired wizard shouted. "What were you doing spying on me!"

Harry's eyebrows arched up close to his hairline.

"That really happened?" he asked. Then he winced, and added, "Oh,shite…Sorry, Mate…I just made that up as a hypothetical."

Hermione stifled a giggle and innocently asked, "But Ron, like you just said…we're all friends and family, right?"

"Sod off, the both of you!" the red-haired teen shouted, just before he slammed his glass on the kitchen table and stomped out the back door.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered. "That could have gone better."

"Did you really think that it was just a hypothetical?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah."

"Bloody hell!" Hermione hissed.

Harry glanced towards the back door and nodded. "Yeah…I better go track him down and apologize…and maybe get him out of the house for a while." He turned towards Hermione's mum and asked, "Is that corner coffee shop still going to be open?"

Emily glanced at her watch, nodded, and replied, "Until four."

"So I guess the next question," said Harry, "is whether I can get a shot of brain bleach with my espresso."

Hermione laughed, and asked, "Can I get a double shot of that in a soy latte, please?"

"I'll see what I can do," Harry said with a smile, before setting his glass in the sink and making his way outside.

Roger shook his head, and asked, "Care to explain what that was all about?"

His daughter drained her glass, then fell back onto the sofa, leaned her head against the top of the cushion, and closed her eyes.

"You know those ton tongue toffees that Harry mentioned?" she asked. "They're a prank item, invented by Ron's brothers to sell in their joke shop."

Emily Granger used the next few seconds of silence to sit down across from her daughter, before impatiently asking, "And what's the prank?"

Hermione opened her eyes, turned towards her mother, and replied, "Sorry…I was just…Talk about mood changer!"

"That bad?" her father asked.

"So, these toffees look like the regular wrapped candies," Hermione stated. "But eating them makes your tongue grow to obscene lengths…obscene in more than one sense of the word."

"How long, exactly?"

"Let's just say that if you eat three or four, one right after the other…instead of being able to touch the tip of your nose, your tongue can hang down long enough to reach a different…tip."

"Damn," said Roger, "that would complicate your oral hygiene."

"But do wonders for your oral sex!" his wife snarked.

"Mother!"

Hermione's mum ignored the complaint, and asked, "So do these candies work on Muggles?"

"You'd risk it?" asked Roger.

Emily laughed.

"I was thinking more about you, Dear," she replied. "That length sounds rather cumbersome, but if the dosage was proportional, and you managed to extend it to, say…eight or nine inches?"

Hermione used a throw pillow to cover her face and muffle a scream of exasperation.

"Something wrong, Dear?" Emily coyly asked.

Her daughter pulled the cushion away from her face and stood.

"I'm going to go into my room now, and shut the door," she announced. "Then I'm going to read my letter, and pray that my parents' ability to embarrass the hell out of me is going to follow an exponential decay pattern over time."

Hermione resisted the temptation to run and walked at a brisk pace towards her bedroom. Halfway down the hall, she turned towards the front entrance of the house and briefly considered catching up with her two friends. This pause allowed her to overhear her father quietly reprimand her mother. The whispered fear that she might be driving their daughter away from them, only hours of her arrival, gave Hermione a chance to put things into perspective.

Moments later, she was rushing back into the living area, and into her mother's arms. After a firm hug, Hermione declared, "I love you both, and I'm so happy to have found you, and that I really didn't steal your memories and make you forget you even had a daughter…"

"We're just as happy, and love you just as much," her mother replied, patting Hermione on the back.

Roger walked over and pulled daughter and wife into a loose three-way hug.

"Hermione, you'll have to forgive us for forgetting that you've forgotten," he said. "That kind of adult-level banter was, believe it or not, almost normal by the end of your stay with us last year."

"Really?" his daughter asked.

Emily nodded in agreement. "Blame it on your daily survey, and some of those survey questions," she explained.

Hermione's father added, "Treating you like the adult…might have also made it just a little easier for us to let our not-so-little girl return to Britain…"

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Hermione cried, pulling them into another tearful hug.

Fifteen seconds into this emotion-filled embrace, Roger's "stiff upper lip" cultural conditioning kicked in, and he stepped back from the group hug.

"So we're all going to try to be mindful of the odd situation that we're in, and be patient with each other, right?" he asked.

"Right," Hermione agreed.

"And your father and I will try to remember that you don't remember," Emily added. "And we'll also try to remember that we no longer have the house to ourselves."

"Oh, fabulous," Hermione said, with a smile that cut through her whiny tone of voice. "I suppose that I've forgotten that you two made this a clothing optional rental house last year?"

Her mother snorted. "Not on more than an accidental basis…at least until you left."

"Oh, Merlin!" Hermione hissed.

"It's not as debauched as you probably think it is," her father said.

"It's also the topic of a couple of survey questions," her mum declared. Not waiting for Hermione to ask the logical follow-up, she added, "Using a five point scale, with five being _strongly likely_, how likely is it that Ron Weasley would be a very naughty boy if your mother accidentally showed him the full Messiah?"

"Is casual nudity an Australian thing?" Hermione asked, taking the oblique _Life of Brian_ reference in stride.

"Of course not," her father was quick to reply. "It's just a matter of layout…you know how we had a full bath attached to the master bedroom back in the Weybridge house?"

"Yes, of course."

"So it wasn't a big deal if we walked naked from the bath to the bedrrom's walk-in closet, as long as the bedroom door was closed."

Hermione looked around at the open floorplan, and noted, "But this house has just the one bath, and you have to walk through the kitchen and living areas to get to it from the bedrooms."

"Exactly," her mum replied. "And since the only windows that overlook that little are at the back of the kitchen, and look out into a fenced yard…"

Hermione sighed. "So should I post a reminder note on the bedroom door and bathroom mirror?"

"Wouldn't hurt," Emily declared. "Would you be a dear and also make it so you and your friends can't hear what goes on in those two rooms?"

Hermione asked, "Are our tender ears at risk over what you two might be doing behind closed doors?"

"She does have a point, Luv," Roger told his wife. "With company in the house, it would be rather rude for us to tie up the only lav."

"Even given the efficiencies of shared showers?" Emily asked.

"Careful," her husband cautioned. "or our daughter might wish to employ that same logic."

Emily shrugged. "No worries, so long as she asks the right boy to lather her up."

"Mother!" Hermione whined.

Emily laughed. "Yes, Dear, you're absolutely right…I shouldn't have said that."

Hermione's mum leaned forward, kissed her on the cheek, then spun her towards the hallway and delivered a light spank to her bum

"Now you go read that letter," Emily ordered, "while your father gives me a proper ton tongue lashing."

_"Mother!"_

**oo00OO00oo**

The bedroom's privacy spells that had been erected just before her mother had started in on the embarrassing survey questions only required a bit of touching up. Once reasonably certain that she wasn't going to be spied upon or walked in on, Hermione pulled the self-addressed envelope from her back pocket, and sat down on the bed.

A series of diagnostic charms failed to turn up any curses or jinxes, and her efforts to rip open the envelope by hand were satisfyingly unsuccessful.

Hermione then placed her wand tip against the envelope, and said her private version of the Marauder's Oath.

"I solemnly swear that _they_ are always up to no good."

The envelope flap immediately popped open, revealing a folded sheaf of stationary paper.

Hermione pulled the letter out of the envelope, and spread the individual pieces of paper out onto the duvet. Finding the hidden clues on each page that signified their authorship, she began to read, one page at a time.

** oooooooo begin letter ooooooooo**

Dear Me,

I imagine that I should start this letter off with embarrassing facts or anecdotes that only I (and you) would know in aggregate, to prove that this really is being penned by the Muggleborn daughter of Roger and Emily Granger, so…dry knickers sympathetically lent out of Mrs. Carlson's desk drawer; asking Mum why she was pressing her Hitachi "back massager" against her front; and regrets over not insisting that love was more important than books and cleverness. Sufficient, I hope? Each page within this sealed letter also has my (your) proof of authorship marks that (unfortunately) were needed more than once on homework assignments.

The plan, of course, is for this letter to be superfluous; we win, nobody dies (at least nobody that we care about), and Mad-Eye restores the memories that I will ask him to overwrite (once this plane touches down and I reestablish contact). But no plan survives contact with the enemy, and my research suggests that the risk of having somebody other than Mad-Eye restore the memories are too great. If he doesn't survive the war (or has, but hasn't yet restored those memories), **don't let someone else try**! You won't remember having done that research, so for my (your) benefit I've written up my findings, created an annotated reference list, and saved them as document files on a memory stick that I left with Mum and Dad (if that stick has been lost, there's a duplicate buried under the gum tree in the rear garden of 24 Woodmason Street, Malvern, Victoria). If you're reading this letter, you should already know how to gain access to the documents on those flash drives.

The thought of permanently losing a month of memories is making me sick right now, and I imagine that you are just as nauseous in the "right now" of my future. But for better or worse, I've decided that it's worth the risk. The memory sticks contain electronic journal entries that should cover most of the past month's narrative. If you have questions about any of that, you can ask Mum and Dad. They might omit a few details, or rephrase what they now wish they hadn't said during one of our arguments. They might even omit or rephrase some of what I've said, to make me look better in the retelling. Don't feel angry or short-changed if they do…we owe them at least that opportunity, after the way that I broke their hearts when I boarded that plane and chose Hell and Harry over Heaven and them.

Merlin, I hope that last statement doesn't make you scratch your head, and wonder why I would want to choose Harry over somebody else (especially if the choice is between Harry and Ron). If that _is _the case, DON'T PANIC. Just get your arse to the nearest potions detox center, and check yourself in. See if you feel the same way after a week of (hopefully gentle) cleansing from both ends. Although…scratch that recommendation. Check in to a detox center now, regardless of your current feelings, or whether Mum thinks your survey answers were in line with her hopes and expectations (if you haven't taken the survey yet, ask her for help).

Damn, I should have started this letter with those instructions. Unfortunately, short of being placed in a holding pattern over Heathrow, I won't have time to revise before we land. Maybe this rambling wreck of a letter to my future self will make more sense if you (my future self) revises for me? Thanks.

Now, if telling you to head to detox sounds paranoid or melodramatic…even more reason to suspect that you've been subjected to loyalty potions, or love potions, or both. I've done a bit of research, and identified the best treatment options in Australia (as of now). Names and addresses are included within this letter, and also located on those memory sticks. If Mum and Dad are there, convince them to go as well. Not so much for the detox, as for their company. Now, if Harry and/or Ron travelled to Australia with you, then…

You might be interested to learn that I promised myself that I wasn't going to give future me detailed instructions, and that I was going to trust future me to know what to do once the facts were at hand. I made that promise right before I wasted most of this day-long plane trip creating a dozen different half-arsed flow charts and contingency plans that I'm too embarrassed to share, even with myself. The thing is, regardless of scenario, or where and how you presently find yourself, my advice to you can be boiled down to a few simple steps that seem to be universally applicable (and worth repeating, if I've already mentioned them):

1) Complete a potion detox program while anyone with the last name DUMBLEDORE or WEASLEY is far, far away. Preferably on a different continent.

2) Look at the electronic documents, and add additional data points to your emotional survey.

3) Talk to Mum and Dad about what happened this past month, what will have happened since then, and what they think should happen next.

4) SPEND AT LEAST A MONTH OUTSIDE OF MAGICAL BRITAIN. This is important. The time spent in "One House" Australia has offered clear proof that you don't have to give up one life to have another. Hogwarts teaches and the British wiz world reinforces the wrong-headed idea that if you want to use your God-given magic, you have to separate yourself from the Muggle world, and put up with all of the pureblood bullshit and antediluvian attitudes. It's not true…you can have your pudding and eat it too. And don't ever think there aren't worthy friends or lovers who wouldn't follow you down that same yellow brick road to Oz.

5) Speaking of which…try to get Harry to complete the previous four steps (except for doing the survey, even though I'm dying to know how he would answer some of those questions).

6) There is no step six.

7) Dare to go where your head and your heart both think you should be.

Short of additional instructions, I'm going to use the rest of my time to write down some deep thoughts and undocumented ideas that I've conjured up after I boarded the plane at Melbourne. Things that I didn't put on the sticks, and didn't dare discuss with Mum and Dad.

In my last journal entry on the computer, I summarized all of the evidence that leads me to suspect that Albus Dumbledore has been feeding me loyalty potions that are tied to Ronald Weasley (and, quite possibly, to himself as well). Not certain when this might have started…my best guess is at the end of Third Year, when Harry and I rescued Buckbeak and Sirius without need of a third wheel. Certainly by the time that Harry's name flew out of the cup during Fourth Year, but it could have been as early as First Year's troll incident. DD had to have had help with the brewing and/or the dosing; Molly almost certainly was involved over the Summer hols. I'd like to think that Ron wasn't in on the plan, and was an involuntary donor of the strands of hair that would have keyed my loyalties to him. But I can't be certain. Maybe you will be in a better position to elucidate?

The intermittent romantic interest that I've had in Ron may have been stimulated by supplemental love potions. More likely from Molly than Dumbles, starting after Fourth Year, when I spent the hols with her family rather than with my own. Or…maybe the loyalty potions were enough of a nudge by themselves, creating Ron-colored glasses for my eyes, with blinders attached to keep me from thinking of more worthy friends as more than just friends? Or maybe I am just a screwed-up hormonally-charged adolescent girl with self-esteem issues who knows a little bit of game theory, and is willing to settle for second best? I'm afraid that it is too much to hope that you've discounted that possibility since the time of this letter writing.

The obvious question here is motivation. Why did I need to be loyal to Ron? Again, I can only offer my current best guesses. I think that the loyalty potions might be the glue that has held The Golden Trio™ together over the past years. Without it, I don't think that I would have tolerated the way Ron has treated me, even if it was a noble sacrifice made for Harry's benefit. We couldn't both be there for Harry if I couldn't stand to be with Ron, and DD decided at some point that Harry needed _**both**_ Ron _**and**_ me by Harry's side, as he completed the hero's quest that has been set out for him. Maybe he liked the way that we actually worked together as Ickle Firsties? Or he thought that we had the right combination of skills to aid Harry? Maybe it's a combo platter, filled with reasons that I haven't thought of yet. As for the potential love potions…well, if Mad-Eye's spell work made you forget what OBHWF stands for, it shouldn't take you that long to figure it out (at least once you're free of any potential potion effects). Here's a hint…the "B" stands for "Big" and that means big enough to include Harry as well. He's just as much at risk as I am, I'm afraid.

Damn it! No holding pattern…they've announced our clearance to land and ordered seat backs and trays in a locked upright position. Have to rush before I lose my writing surface.

Which means no more avoiding the big question…why the fuck am I on this plane right now? Better yet…as long as I am going to be on the ground shortly, why don't I just hire a taxicab once I clear customs, and make a quick round-trip visit to Little Whinging?

I've checked the flight schedules...eight hours after landing, a different crew is going to fly this same plane from Heathrow back to Singapore. That's more than enough time for me to forge a passport and convince Harry to escape back to Melbourne with me. And if he was too noble for his own good, I could alter _his _memories, and make him think he was Wendell Granger (my Irish twin brother). Two unrestricted one-way tickets would take a big bite out of the pile of cash that mum and dad gave me to live on for the next year, but I don't think they'd mind. Might get a bit icky if I start hitting on my kid brother after we'd settled in, but…

But that would be doing what is easy, rather than what is right. And I'd be taking that same choice away from him, which I could never do (as much as I might want to). He'd never forgive me once he learned the truth (and Magic and Murphy's law would both demand that he did).

Mum and Dad begged and pleaded with me not to come back to Britain. Not just because of the obviously high risk of death, but also the high risk of a new potion regimen once I return. I thought about learning some advanced potion detection charms while I was in Australia, but I'd just forget them once I forget I was there, right? Maybe I can convince Mad-Eye to teach me after he's messed with my memories. But if not…and if it was only Dumbledore's doing, and just the loyalty potions, it might not be so bad. If I need loyalty potions to stomach the "Stomach" over the next year, then so be it. Harry needs all the help he can get right now, and at this point in the game, he probably doesn't trust anyone but Ron and me to travel by his side. So what if I didn't return? It'd just be Harry and Ron, and sorry for selling tickets on myself, but those two wouldn't last too long without me (or without mum and dad's money, for that matter). I'd like to think that just Harry and me would fare better, but even then…alienate Ron and you risk alienating the Weasleys, and we're going to need that base of support in the coming days.

Remember expressing a rather silly fear about being "killed, or worse…expelled?" Mum unknowingly echoed those words when she worried that I would be "killed, or worse…drugged into marrying Ranga." It could happen, but would you be reading this letter if it does? Go to detox. If you had feelings for Ron, and still have feelings after you're clean, then by all means, go for it. Have fun and lots of babies (you know that won't be an option, right?). And then you can write off this whole month and this rambling diatribe as paranoid nonsense induced by large doses of parental guilt.

On the other hand…if it's as I suspect, and (worse) if there's evidence that Ron was in on the scheme?

Just don't let Harry kill the bastard(s). Hard to have a fulfilling sex life when your partner is a long-term guest at Azkaban. Not that I'm suggesting you think of him that way if you aren't currently thinking of him that way…or dreaming of him that way...or perving...

Wow. This turned out really long, and I've just got a personal invitation to put the tray up. Just enough time to add the markers and seal the envelope. I'll have to wait until we land to magically secure it so…

Right.

Don't forget to whistle.

Hr

** oooooooo end letter oooooooo  
><strong>

Hermione let out a deep breath once she reached letter's end. The last page (as promised) contained a list of Australian health resorts that offered magical detox programs.

She placed the tip of her wand against each page of the letter and said her version of the Marauder's Oath, not knowing whether she wanted a different message to be revealed. But neither the Oath, nor her modified benediction (_"Mischief occasionally managed"_) changed any of the written words.

Hermione glanced at the spell-silenced door, and thought about asking her parents for the memory stick, or for the password to unlock the computer screen. But that would require at least some explanation of the letter's contents, and she really, really needed to think before sharing (or acting).

Walking over to her father's computer desk, the Muggleborn witch fished a pen from a desk drawer, and grabbed some paper from the printer tray. She then returned to her bed, once again laid out each of the hand-written pages, and started in on the self-suggested job of revising the letter.

Much had happened since the letter had been written, and it was hard to keep more recent events from creeping into the revision.

Whistling helped.


	5. Chapter 5: In Vino, Some Veritas

**Little Swimmers  
><strong>A multi-chaptered somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

**A/N:** I know that I promised shorter chapters posted more frequently, but when a single scene meets those qualifications I begin to worry about disjointedness. So if that's a concern for you as well, you can either (a) treat this update as a really long, slightly delayed addition to the previous chapter, or (b) wait until the next update is posted and read them both together.

Oh, and as a heads up. Just like Hermione's letter rambled on in the last chapter because it was appropriate for the situation, the following dialogue rambles and meanders and is laced with a fair amount of profanities. Because that's how conversations often turn out when they involve teen-aged boys and alcohol.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**oo00OO00oo**

**Chapter 5: In Vino, Some Veritas**

_In the rear garden, a few minutes before Hermione's mum imagined being tongue-tied by her father…_

Not spotting Ron on the porch, or the deck, or within the rear garden, Harry unlatched the wooden gate that provided access to the front of the property and pulled it open. Once through, he turned back to close the gate…then thought of one last check and retraced his steps. Closing the fence-high gate behind him provided Harry with enough visual privacy to pull out his wand and cast a _Point Me _spell. With the result confirming his suspicions, he walked across the lawned area and opened the door that led into the garage.

The car was there, the lights were off, and the garage door on the far side was closed.

"Ron?" Harry called into the darkened space.

"Piss off!"

Harry reached for the switch and turned on the overhead lights.

"C'mon out, Mate, so we can talk."

"I can talk well enough from here."

Harry leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and shook his head in frustration. Taking a deep breath then letting it out, he shut the door behind him and walked around the end of the sedan. Ron was sitting on the concrete floor, with his back against the roller door, and with a half-filled wine bottle in his hand.

"Couldn't find the light switch?" Harry asked.

Ron took a swig from the bottle, then shook his head and asked, "Am I wizard, or not?"

Noticing that his friend was staring at the wine bottle, the red-haired teen snorted loudly, and added, "Don't worry…I'm just borrowing it from their collection. I'll put it back when I'm done."

Harry's gaze followed the lip of the wine bottle, as Ron pointed it towards a green plastic bin that sat in the corner of the shed, half-filled with emptied tins and glass containers. Lacking the heart (or stomach) to teach his friend about Muggle recycling programs, he asked what he thought might be a safer question.

"How did you find that bin in the dark?"

"_Lumos_ spell."

"Ah. So…"

"Don't worry…nobody saw me use my wand. Didn't violate their one-house laws."

"No, I was wondering why you wanted to drink in the dark."

"Couldn't find the light switch," Ron replied. "And I couldn't keep the _Lumos_ going while I cast the fountain of wine spell."

"Ah…that explains the spillage, then," Harry replied, noticing the red stains on his friend's jeans and shirt sleeves. Not wanting to point out that Ron could have recast the light spell after conjuring the wine, he pointed out the locations of both the light switch and the controls for the automatic garage door opener, then sat down on the floor next to his friend.

Ron scowled a bit, then shook his head and held the wine bottle out.

"Want some?"

Harry chuckled. Wondering if the residual contents of the binned wine bottle might have improved the current content's flavor, he asked, "Does it taste any better than the last time you offered?"

Ron shrugged, and admitted, "Probably not…it's not like I could have practiced over the past couple of weeks. Or needed to practice, for that matter."

Harry chuckled to himself as he both declined the offer and acknowledged the truth behind those two statements. One of the things that Ron had done during his post-abandonment stay at Shell Cottage was learn the fountain of wine spell from his brother Bill. He had demonstrated this skill after the deluminator had guided his return to the tent, and offered it up as proof to Harry and Hermione that he had done something useful in his absence. Unfortunately, what he conjured was closer to vinegar than wine, and neither of his friends thought it was worth the risk of detection for Ron to improve upon his magical vintner skills through practice.

The fact that Ron couldn't have practiced those skills in the time since the Final Battle was due to his mother's negative opinion on that spell's appropriateness (as well as the spell's French origins). The fact that Ron hadn't needed to practice over that time period was due to the overabundance of the real thing, available during the many victory celebrations and the far too many commemorative wakes.

"I suppose you've come to fetch me for some more embarrassment?" Ron asked, after taking another long sip from the bottle.

"No, just the opposite, actually," Harry replied. "Thought it might be good for the two of us to get out for a bit, and give them some family time."

"I'm happy right here," said Ron. "Planning on kicking my bollocks by yourself, then…or are you going to save it until there's an audience?"

"Neither," said Harry. "Look, I'm really sorry about bringing up the shower toffees. It was just a hypothetical…didn't have a clue that you'd actually…"

"Sure, you didn't," Ron snapped.

"And actually…it's not _that _disturbing a mental image, if you stop and think about it," Harry reasoned.

Ron snorted. "You're actually thinking about me in the shower with a three-foot long tongue looking for places to lick, and saying that it isn't _that _disturbing?" he asked. "And here I thought that _**I **_had reason to be embarrassed."

"Jeesus, Ron, it's not like I'm getting a stiffie thinking about you licking yourself," Harry reasoned. "I mean…I've never walked in on you while you were tossing one off. Does it make me a perv just because I have an active-enough imagination to know what that might look like, if I did?"

"There's a big difference between imaging someone doing that, and knowing that they've done it."

"Ah…so are you telling me that I'm wrong to assume that you've wanked on occasion, even though I haven't seen proof?"

"Right…so no difference between knowing that I toss one off on occasion, just like every other normal bloke, and that I…the one time, mind you…wondered what it'd feel like if I…you know…"

Harry laughed. "Did I shun Sirius after that time in Grimmauld Place when we caught him licking his own balls?"

"Yeah, but it's different when you're a dog animagus."

"Oh, c'mon Mate…I seriously doubt that you're the only one who ate those toffees on purpose…and for that purpose."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Dunno," Harry replied with a smirk. "Does the thought of someone like Susan Bones tongue-tickling her own bits make you feel better?"

"Hmmmmmm….." Ron groaned, before drowning out his groan with a mouthful of conjured rotgut. Pulling the bottle back from his lips, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve then held out the bottle.

"Sure you don't want some?" he asked.

"Thanks, but…I really shouldn't have had that champagne, given the potions that I'm on," Harry replied. His smirk grew into a smile when he then asked, "So you don't mind the thought of Susie licking her own bits?"

"Nah."

"And you're not sexist, right?" Harry asked. "If it's okay for you to perv on the thought of her licking her own bits, then it should be okay for her to perv on the idea of you licking yours."

"Yeah, but still…you're not Susan Bones."

"That's true enough," Harry admitted. His smile morphed into more of an ear-to-ear maniacal grin as he entertained a thought that he felt slightly guilty about.

"Of course," he continued, "Susie's baps are big enough…not hard to imagine her reaching her top bits with the tip of her tongue even without the toffees."

Ron took another hit from the bottle, then smiled just as widely as Harry, and replied, "Don't have to."

"Don't have to what?"

"Don't have to imagine what it would look like if Susan Bones nibbled her own nips."

"Really?" Harry asked sharply. "You've seen her do that to herself?"

"Nah…not her," said Ron. "Lavender. She got off on doing that in front of me, while I…."

"While you what?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?" Ron asked.

"No."

"Well good, then," Ron said, finishing off the conjured wine.

Harry watched silently as his fried pushed his wand down the neck of the emptied bottle and magically refilled it.

"Yes, Sir…good times!" Ron declared, acting quite proud of himself.

"I'm happy for you," Harry said sarcastically.

Not all that happy with his friend's lack of enthusiasm, Ron continued on.

"I'm telling you, Harry…the only thing more amazing than watching Lavender lick her own nipples was watching her lick me like a blood pop, each time that my todger got close enough while I was titty-…"

"Shut the fuck up, Ron!" Harry whined.

Ron snorted. "Yeah, 'fuck'…that's what I was just about to say."

"And that's why I tried to interrupt you."

"C'mon, Mate," Ron complained. "This is what mates like us get to talk about when there aren't girls like Hermione around to complain."

"No," Harry countered. "This is what guys like you get to talk about, when their mums are ten thousand miles away and there's no risk of being hit in the mouth with a soap scrubbing jinx."

"Who put the stick up your arse?" Ron snapped.

"You really think that Hermione's only complaint about you bragging about the dirty things that Lavender did with her tongue would be your dirty language?"

Ron snorted. "Well it's not like she's ever been willing to…"

"Shut your mouth, before I punch it!" Harry barked.

"Yeah, yeah…our big freakin' Bro Code deal," Ron said dismissively. "You don't talk about what you and my sister do, and I don't talk about what I do…or don't get to do…with Hermione." He took another long drink from the refilled bottle, then added, "Although we made that deal when they were our girlfriends. Now that we're both supposedly free men again, and free to sow some wild Aussie oats…"

"I still don't want to hear it."

"Okay, then, back to Lavender sucking on her own…"

"I don't want to hear about that, either!"

"Merlin, quit acting like a fucking poofter," Ron whined. "Just because I've gotten more arse than you have..."

"So am I jealous, or acting like a poof?" Harry asked.

"Guess it can't be both," Ron said with a laugh. And a belch. And another draw from the bottle.

"Sure you don't want some?" he asked, waving the bottle in front of Harry's face.

"No, I really don't want to drink your backwash," the raven-haired wizard replied. "Although, that might actually taste better than the swill that dribbled out of your wand."

"That's what she said!" Ron declared, laughing loudly at his own joke.

Harry shook his head, and asked his friend to stop acting like a dick. Ron took another drink from the bottle, then suggested that it was Harry who started in on the dickish behavior when he talked about Susan Bones licking herself. There was then a brief debate on the fine line that separates dickish behavior from how a normal teen-aged boy acts. No sudden epiphanies or conclusions were reached, in no small part thanks to Ron's advancing state of inebriation. Perhaps in realization of this fact, Ron eventually decided to broach a related topic.

"So Hermione said her mum was asking about monthlies…is that why she's been acting so bitchy?"

"No, it's not that time of the month."

"How do you know that?"

"By having a clue," Harry quipped. "It's not like we haven't spent the last ten months in close quarters with her. Or eight months, in your case."

"Oh, shut the hell up with me leaving the tent, again," Ron whined. "Or do I have to keep apologizing for something that you both agreed wasn't completely my fault."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…it was all the locket's evil influences," Harry shot back. "If only that were still an excuse."

"Exactly," Ron replied. "That way I could blame the locket for her breaking up with me, and for you breaking Ginny's heart."

"Yeah, wouldn't that be convenient?" Harry snapped. "That way you wouldn't have to think about how much you've back-slided, or how damn manipulative Ginny was acting...and just to remind you, she was the one that broke up with me!"

"What the fuck do you mean…back-slided?"

Harry took a deep breath and quick-counted to ten.

"Ron, you were different…in a good way…when you came back after Christmas," he began. "It was easy for Hermione and me to blame the locket for playing upon your fears and insecurities, because you didn't have them on display afterwards. You were _there_ for us, with the emotional range of a tanker ship, rather than a teaspoon. I'd like to think that's why Hermione's opinion of you shifted so quickly to the good."

"You think there could have been a different reason?" Ron challenged.

Harry shrugged. "Well, a skeptical person might have considered love potions a possibility, but…"

"Oh, Merlin's Saggy Balls…not that again!"

Harry cleared his throat. "As I was saying…but since I also thought you were acting far more mature than beforehand, and since I wasn't fancying you, that ruled out love potions."

"Well, good," Ron declared. "Because I'd never…I mean, after what happened when I ate those chocolates from Romilda Vane…"

An eyebrow arched towards Harry's hair line.

"So you'd never resort to dosing Hermione or me with love potions, or volunteering the hair samples that someone else would need to do the job themselves, or dosing out potions to us that some third party gave you?"

"What kind of fucking monster do you think I am?" Ron brayed. "And why the fuck would I want to give you a love potion keyed to my hair?"

"It wouldn't have been keyed to you, you berk…to someone else," Harry replied.

"Fuck you, Potter," Ron spat. "Just because Hermione claims that mum told her that she used a love potion to help move things along with Dad, now the only reason that anyone could fancy me or my sister is because of love potions…is that it?"

"And fuck you for not listening, you fucking arse," Harry shot back. "I said quite clearly that I ruled out the influence of love potions to explain your sudden maturity."

"It couldn't have just been me growing up, all by myself, and Hermione seeing that and liking it…could it?" Ron whined. "No, not possible."

Harry snorted. "Well there was that re-gifted birthday present that I got, called _Twelve Foolproof Ways to Charm Witches…"_

"So nobody is allowed to learn nothing from a book, unless it's in the Hogwarts library or on a required class list? I didn't even have that book with me when I left!"

"I'm not saying it was the book either, you berk," said Harry. "It obviously wasn't why I thought you seemed more charming and mature."

"Right, so…"

"So would you let me give you a fucking compliment?" Harry asked. "You came back to the tent far more mature than you had acted beforehand…and you stayed that way right though the Final Battle."

Ron nodded his head in agreement at the same time he sipped from the wine bottle, causing some of the conjured wine to drip down his shirt.

"I cared about the Hogwarts house elves, and Hermione kissed me," he proudly declared (with only a hint of drunken slurring). "_**She**_ was the one that kissed _**me**_!"

"Yes, you've told me," Harry replied, adding, "only about a thousand times."

"Well that's what happened."

"Yes that's what happened," Harry agreed. "Just like the three of us staying with your family afterwards is what happened."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"This is where the back-sliding part comes in," Harry explained. "Just as soon as we were within range of your mother's apron strings, you lost all of that maturity and regressed."

"Hey, don't you disrespect my mother!" Ron yelled. "She's as much of a war hero-ess…hero-een…hero-ine…"

"Didn't say she wasn't," Harry agreed. "She's your mum, she's a war heroine, and…she's your mum, and insists on acting like your mum, even when she isn't."

"What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong is that she thinks being your mother means always knowing what's best for you…and expecting you to act that way."

"Enough of this bullshite," Ron decided. "We should go."

Harry nodded. "Yeah, I think a walk and some fresh air would do us both some good right now."

Ron turned towards him and shook his head.

"I mean we should go _home_," he clarified.

"Ah," said Harry. "Now that would be a rather long walk, wouldn't it?"

"You know what I mean," Ron replied. "We came here to find and retrieve Hermione's parents. We found them. Time to go home."

"Might not be that simple."

"Why not?" Ron asked.

"Because we haven't asked if Hermione's parents actually want to return to England," Harry explained. "It's a rental house, but they kept a bedroom for Hermione..."

"Shouldn't matter," Ron reasoned. ""She said she had to find her parents, give'em back their memories and bring them back to England. If her parents want to stay, then fine. They stay, we've done our duty, and the three of us go home."

Harry let out a deep breath.

"I'm guessing that Hermione will want to spend some time with her parents, regardless of whether they stay or go."

"What for?" Ron barked. "We made a deal…we helped Hermione find her parents, now she needs to hold up her end of the bargain."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Harry barked back. "There was no deal. There was no bargain made. And nobody forced you to come with us."

"Nobody forced you to go either," Ron countered. "And there was nothing forcing Hermione to retrieve her parents now, rather than later."

"You're absolutely right," Harry replied. "Hermione wasn't forced to fly off and find her parents this week…she wanted to do it, all on her own. And she didn't force me to join her…I wanted to do it."

"But why the fuck now?"

"Why not the fuck now?" Harry said with a huge amount of exasperation. "You've never given us a reason not to, other than it's what your mummy decided was best for us."

"So it's always to hell with whatever my mum wants?" Ron yelled. "After all my family has done for you over all these years?"

"Don't you dare go there, unless you're ready to sit down and tally up life debts," Harry hissed.

Ron growled, "You really are a selfish bastard sometimes."

"Yeah, while I'm in good company, aren't I?"

Ron somehow retained enough self-control not to throw a punch in response. Instead, he shook his head and slurred out a whine.

"So once again, it's all about the great fucking Harry Potter, and about how fucking great he is."

"What are you on about?"

"This trip, it's all about you once again being the hero."

"No, this trip is all about reuniting Hermione with her family."

"And how was she able to do that?" Ron countered. "With _your _money. _Your_ money to buy the plane tickets. _Your_ money for the food. _Your_ money deposited into a Muggle bank account in my name, so that I can spend _your_ money with that Muggle plastic card. It's all _your_ money."

"Oh, Jeesus…it's the jealousy again?" Harry whined.

"It's not about jealousy, it's about fucking control," Ron declared. "We could have waited until the Ministry gave us our Order of Merlin money…then I could have bought my own ticket with my own money, and Hermione could have bought her own ticket. But no…we had to do it now, so that Harry the Fucking Hero is the one doing all of the buying."

Harry let this explanation hang in the air for a few moments, while he replayed it in his head and thought about what Ron was saying. This was the first time that this specific explanation had been voiced. He could easily counter the argument, but he also appreciated Ron's side. His friend never had much money growing up, and Malfoy had constantly teased him about that fact, so it was going to be a big deal that Ron would eventually have some measure of financial independence through the Order of Merlin award money. And Harry also liked hearing this reasoning, because it was a much more palatable basis for arguing for the trip's delay than the alternatives (e.g. that Ron didn't think Hermione's Muggle parents counted for much, or that Ron was slavishly parroting his mother's party line). Of course, these reasons weren't mutually exclusive, and there was still a lot not to like about Ron's logic…for example, the idea that Harry would hold his wealth over his friend's heads as a measure of control. But it was at least worth some acknowledgement, delivered with more of a conciliatory tone of voice.

"I understand what you're saying here, Ron," Harry began. "I was certainly focused more on Hermione's feelings and what she wanted with respect to reuniting with her family. I'm not going to apologize for that, because it was the right thing to do."

"But…"

"Let me finish, Ron," Harry insisted. "The money really doesn't matter all that much to me…and before you go off on that proving your point, saying that it's only when you have money that you can afford to be that cavalier about losing it…I kind of wish that you had explained this to me before we left."

"Would it have made a difference?" Ron asked.

"Not in terms of the travel schedule," Harry replied. "But we could have handled the money issues differently."

"What do you mean?"

"You just said that you wanted to wait to retrieve Hermione's parents until after you got your Merlin money, and could pay for your own expenses, right?"

"Right."

"And the Ministry has already told us how much we're each going to eventually get, right?"

"Yeah, twenty-five thousand galleons each."

"So if really mattered that much to you, I could have just loaned you a couple of thousand galleons off the furniture sale, to be paid back once the Merlin money comes through."

"Oh, yeah…guess so."

"We could still draw up a written loan agreement, if you want," Harry added. "Merlin knows that Hermione's been keeping track of every last knut and cent…she'd be able to tell you the plane ticket price, and the money used to set up your debit card account, and your share of the other expenses."

"Yeah, I guess she could," Ron replied (without much enthusiasm). "But wasn't she keeping track so that her parents could repay you? Her dad just talked about repaying you for the plane tickets."

Harry shook his head. "Yeah he did, and Hermione is keeping track of our travel expenses. But that's more for my benefit, in case her father won't take no for an answer."

"What do you mean?"

Harry shook his head in response to his friend's cluelessness.

"We didn't have a lot of money last year when we were on the run, did we?" he asked.

Ron let out a derisive snort and shook his head.

"But we did have some money to pay for the little bit of food that he ate, right?"

"Yeah."

"So where did it come from?"

"Hermione's purse?"

"And where did the money in her purse come from?"

"Erm…didn't she say it was the money her parents were going to use to pay for last year's school tuition?"

"Yup, so whose money was it?"

"But…they were going to spend it on her tuition anyway, right?"

"And what if she decides to go back to Hogwarts for her final year?"

"Oh, right," said Ron. "Mum and Dad said that my tuition money had already been paid…and that it's sitting there waiting for me to finish up my final year."

"Exactly," Harry replied. "Now, Hermione has insisted that trying to sort out who owes who what money is a little like friends sitting down to sort out who owes life debts to whom. And that's how I feel about your share of the travel expenses. But if you really want to set up a loan so that you know that the unspent balance on your debit card really is your own money to spend, then…"

_(Snore)_

Harry turned towards his nominally sleeping friend, and caught the now empty wine bottle just before it slipped out of his hand and hit the floor.

_(Snore)_

"Ron?" Harry asked, nudging his friend's shoulder with his own.

"S'tired…"

Harry thought about "waking" the guy whom a cynic might think had fallen asleep at a rather convenient point in the discussion (i.e. just when the topic of paying back a loan came back up). But Harry resisted the temptation to be that cynical, especially when it allowed for a bit of opportunism.

His main goal in tracking down Ron had been to apologize for his unintentional gaffe, and to keep Ron out of the house for a long enough period of time for Hermione to read her self-addressed letter in relative peace. And Ron out of consciousness was just as good as Ron out of the house.

Harry's first thought was to let Ron sleep where he lay, but that wouldn't be very nice, and he wanted to keep at least a half on eye on his friend while he slept off the conjured alcohol.

His second thought was to levitate his sleeping friend back to the porch, and tuck him into his sleeping bag. But that seemed a bit too risky given the neighborhood and the "one house" approach to co-mingled living (even with the fences blocking views from the neighboring yards).

So Harry settled on a third plan. A spell cleaned the wine stains from both Ron's clothing and the garage floor. A second spell sent Ron into an even deeper sleep, and a third feathered his weight, so that Harry didn't have to work all that hard to lift his friend's body over his shoulder, and use a fireman's carry to bring Ron back to the porch.

The _Somnus_ charm was more for Harry's benefit than Ron's…with luck, it would keep the red-haired wizard asleep through the night, and give Harry the chance to talk with Hermione and her parents without interruption (and without the fear of another of Ron's temper tantrum). It was admittedly a little selfish, and a little Slytherin, but at that point Harry really didn't care.


	6. Chapter 6: The Python He Knows Not

**Little Swimmers  
><strong>A multi-chaptered somewhat bawdy (aren't they all?) eventual Harmony fic by canoncansodoff

**A/N:** Another disjointed one scene update, but the word count is right, the timing is more than right, and nobody has complained yet…although I'm surely going to test some readers' patience with yet another admittedly self-indulgent homage. I made an effort to dig a bit deeper into the Python catalog, and steer clear of most of the jokes/gags used in my other stories…some of you guys probably know my collected works better than I do, so I'll leave it for you to decide.

This update is un beta'd, and written almost entirely in one sitting. Time to stretch my legs.

**Disclaimer:** Not my characters, no money being made, etc., etc.

**oo00OO00oo**

**Chapter 6: The Python He Knows Not**

Harry was welcomed back into the house with warm smiles and a raised bottle of sparkling wine.

"You're back," said Roger. "Help us finish off this bottle before it goes flat?"

"Thanks, but I shouldn't," Harry replied, as moved the wine glass that he'd left on the kitchen table into the sink. "The Healer warned me about mixing some of my potions with too much alcohol."

Emily's left eyebrow arched as she matched the teenager's response to the dark red stains on his shirt and the smell of cheap wine.

"Not as much of a problem if you wear it, rather than drink it?" she quipped.

Harry followed Emily's line of sight towards his shirt sleeve and grinned.

"Oops, guess I was too busy cleaning up Ron to notice that," he replied. Harry grabbed a dish cloth and turned on the kitchen faucet. Just before wetting the cloth, he turned back towards Emily and asked, "Is it okay if I…?

"Certainly," said Emily. "So, speaking of Ron…."

"He was the one that was drinking," Harry replied. "Now he's out on the porch, sleeping it off." He rubbed the wet cloth against the wine stain and added, "You'd have figured that out from the snoring, had I not applied a silencing charm."

"Did you two walk down to the bottleshop?" asked Roger.

"What?" Harry asked. Quickly figuring out what he'd been asked, the teen-ager shook his head. "No, he didn't buy it…he conjured it." Harry then threw the cloth into the sink and rolled his eyes, adding, "Which is why I should have remembered that this isn't going to work...if you give me a sec?"

Hermione's parents watched as the teen-aged wizard drew his wand and cast a cleaning charm.

"Hope you don't think I'm showing off or being lazy," he said. "Magical stains usually require magical laundering."

"That was magical wine?" Emily asked.

"Closer to magical vinegar," Harry joked. "But with enough of a punch to suit Ron's needs, so…"

"So now that you're all tidy, why don't stroll over to the living room?" Roger asked, as he gestured towards the other side of the opened space.

Harry followed Hermione's parents on a very short stroll and sat on a very comfortable overstuffed upholstered chair. Emily grabbed her husband's knee for support as she sat next to him on the couch; the fact that she kept her hand there led Harry to wonder whether it had more to do with affection than agility.

"You can conjure wine?" Emily asked.

Harry shrugged. "Well I haven't learned that spell, but…yeah, it's called the 'fountain of wine' spell."

"Or in this case, 'fountain of vinegar,'?" Emily teased.

"Hey, don't be too critical, luv," Roger playfully cautioned. "That could get the boy a job with the Lifeguard Service."

"What's that?" Harry asked.

Emily rolled her eyes. "For the vinegar," she explained. "They've got some of the prettiest beaches in the world here, but half the time you can't swim at them because of the killer jellyfish."

"Killer jellyfish? Really?"

"Yeah, really," said Roger. "Sting from a box jellyfish is incredibly painful, and can even kill you without immediate treatment…which is where the vinegar comes in."

"The weak acidity keeps any of the remaining stingers from firing off," added Emily. "So that's why they keep bottles of vinegar on hand at all of the lifeguard stations."

"Well what if you're swimming at a beach that doesn't have lifeguards?" Harry asked.

Roger chuckled. "That's when you really find out who your friends are."

"Why is that?"

"Because the alternative folk remedy for washing with vinegar is peeing on the wound," Emily replied.

"Ah, I see what you mean about real friends, then," Harry said with a laugh.

"Speaking of alternative medicines," Roger segued, "and not meaning to pry, but…that was a very large collection of potion bottles in your trunk. I don't suppose most of them were for Ron's gas?"

Harry snorted. "It'd be nice if they were."

"Were they covered under the Pharmaceutical Benefits Scheme?" Roger asked.

"The Pharmaceutical what?"

"It a subsidy for prescription medicines," Roger explained. "Similar to what you had back home in Britain…there's a reciprocal healthcare agreement between Australia and the UK."

"Oh, well that explains why they weren't covered," said Harry. "This reciprocity agreement…I'm guessing that it was between the Australian Government and the British Muggle Government?"

"Well, yes, I imagine so," Emily replied. "But why would it matter?" she asked. "You don't have to give up your UK citizenship to do magic in Britain, right?"

"No, but I doubt that the British Ministry of Magic would acknowledge the idea that its Muggle counterpart had the authority to negotiate on their behalf," said Harry. "So the first time that a visiting Australian witch or wizard pulled out their national health card at St. Mungo's, they'd either be laughed out of the building, or checked for mental spell damage."

"Got it," Roger stated. "I imagine that if Australian magicals can't get magical health care benefits in Britain under the reciprocity, then it makes sense that UK witches and wizards wouldn't get it here."

"They'd still have coverage at local non-magical hospitals, wouldn't they?" Emily asked.

Roger let out a dismissive "Hrrummph!" then declared, "As long as they have a British passport, they'd better have coverage!" He then turned to Harry and said, "You don't need to tell us what they are or what you're taking them for, but if you needed to get those filled because of the trip, just let me know the total cost and we'll reimburse you."

"Thanks, but that's really not necessary," Harry insisted. Wishing to quickly change the topic, he glanced down the hallway and asked, "So, I'm guessing that Hermione is off with her letter?"

Emily nodded, and replied, "For a while now."

Harry glanced towards the hallway and asked, "How long is it?"

"That's a rather personal question, sir," Roger quipped.

Hermione's father paid more attention to the smirk on Harry's face than the scowl on his wife's.

"Oh, you mean how much time?" he added. "Not too long. Her mother had a few practical questions about those toffees before we chased her off."

Hermione's mum thought about chiding her husband for his coarse (if accurate) comment, but decided that making a big deal about it would simply focus more attention on the comment.

"I tried knocking on her door just before you returned, but she didn't answer," Emily noted. "Do you think she might have done one of those silencing charms?"

"Probably," said Harry. "I would guess that she's at DefCon3."

"DefCon3?"

"Five point rating security level scale that she and I came up with," Harry explained. "Each level has a specific suite of spells…DefCon3 is mostly mid-level privacy spells; the window and door locks are magically reinforced beyond the level of a simple unlocking charm. The windows and doors themselves are also magically reinforced, making it difficult to either break through them or make them vanish. And either one-way or two-way silencing charms…if you've already knocked, then she's either blocking incoming noise or ignoring you."

"Geez, if that's only a mid-range of security…what happens at DefCon1 or 2?" Roger asked.

Harry shrugged. "Our DefCon2 was top-level passive defenses. Overlapping magical locks and reinforcements, crack sealants, restrictions on inbound magical travel. Once you get to DefCon1, you start throwing in much more aggressively active magic for your self-defense."

"Dare I ask?" Emily asked.

Harry grinned. "Oh, things like flash-bang hexes, electrified doorknobs, levers that release a sixteen ton weight, or release a tiger…"

"What about pointed sticks?" Roger asked with a smirk.

"Shaddup!" Harry barked, in a passing imitation of John Cleese's drill sergeant.

"Oh, shite," Emily whined. "She's infected you, too."

Harry laughed. "I got better."

There was a wide grin on Roger's face as he leaned over and pulled the younger man into a one-armed hug.

"Can we keep him Emily…please?" he asked.

"I suppose," Emily replied, with mock suffering in her voice.

"So what's your favorite movie?" Roger asked.

Harry shook his head. "Haven't seen any of them, actually."

"What?" Roger barked. "Well, we'll just have to remedy that appalling omission in your cultural education, won't we lad?"

The teenager grinned. "Sounds good to me."

"So who's your favorite Python, then?"

"Erm, well…can't say, really."

"I know what you mean," Roger said knowingly. "I'd be hard pressed to pick one myself."

"It's not that…I'm certain they're all brilliant, but…I've never actually seen any of them performing."

"What? How is that possible?"

"Merlin," Harry grumbled. "I wasn't expecting the Spanish Inquisition."

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" Emily chimed in.

"Sorry," Roger apologized. "I suddenly came over all peckish."

Harry laughed, and said, "Fair enough."

Roger squinted at the boy, took a leap of faith, and asked, "Wensleydale?"

"Yes."

"Ah, well, I'll have some of that."

Harry giggled. "Oh, I thought you were talking to me, sir. Mister Wensleydale, that's my name."

Emily rolled her eyes, and asked, "Dead Parrot?"

Harry nodded. "Lovely plumage, the Norwegian Blue."

"Strange women, lying on their backs in ponds, passing out swords?" Roger challenged.

Harry grinned and shook his head. "Not really a basis for a system of government, is it?"

"Right, so now I'm really confused," said Roger. "If you haven't seen the movies or any of the sketches, then how…"

Harry's smile grew even wider. "You do realize that your daughter has unearthly recall ability, right?"

"Good Lord!" Emily scoffed. "She taught you sketch dialogue from rote memory?"

"Yeah, it was brilliant," Harry replied. "And for a long while it was the only thing that kept the two of us sane."

"Really?" asked Emily. "Oh, I do hope that this isn't part of a story that can't be started until later on."

Harry snorted, and glanced over at Roger's nearly empty champagne flute, and considered the need for a drink.

"Well it is, actually," he said, "But…can't keep putting everything off, right?"

"Exactly," Emily agreed.

"So as long as you help me fend off Hermione's complaints about me jumping the gun…"

"Absolutely," Roger eagerly offered.

Harry quietly composed his thoughts for a few moments, as he glanced towards the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

"We were on the run for most of the last year," he began. "Camping on our own, one step ahead of the DE's and the Snatchers, with little food and a musty-smelling tent for cover. Things were pretty desperate for a long while. Plenty of down time, but no telly, or pleasure reading, or money that could be spared for tickets to the Muggle cinema…not a lot to lift your spirits. Except for Python."

"Recited sketches around the fire, instead of storytelling?" Roger asked.

Harry nodded. "First it was just Hermione doing all of the parts. But eventually I caught on, and took over some of the roles. That's why I know the two actor sketches better than the others."

"Just the two of you, then?" Emily asked. "Ron not much of a thespian?"

"Not really," Harry admitted.

"An appreciative audience, then?" Emily asked.

Harry sighed, and shook his head. "A lot of the jokes are anchored on muggle references…it's hard to appreciate the humor behind having penguins on the telly if you only have a vague idea of what a telly is."

"That makes sense," said Roger. "So what kept Ron's spirits up during the hard times?"

"Nothing, really," said Harry. "He quickly got rather annoyed with us and asked us to stop. Things were rough enough, walking around on eggshells, so…we stopped, and it wasn't until he left that we started up again."

"Until he left?" Emily asked sharply.

"Erm…oops?" Harry asked.

"What about leaving oops?" Emily demanded.

Roger placed a firm hand on his wife's knee and squeezed.

"Easy, Dear," he cautioned. "They're here now, and they're safe, and that's all that really matters."

Harry nodded in agreement. "Hermione really would be justifiably angry if I dove too far into the main story line on my own. But I do want to tell you that…well, just how important those routines were to her. And how much they helped her…and helped us."

"It's great to hear that, Harry," said Roger.

"It was no small thing what you did, Mr. Granger," the teenager continued.

"Roger."

"Yes, yes…Roger," Harry replied. "In fact, I could argue that it was vital to the war effort."

"What do you mean, what I did?" Roger asked.

"A way to keep the troops happy…that kind of vital?" Emily asked.

Harry shook his head, "More than that, actually…the shared passion for Python entertained the troops, and anchored Hermione, and pissed-off the enemy…all at the same time."

"Should we fetch Hermione to hear more about this, then?" Emily asked.

Harry shook his head. "I'd almost rather say this when she wasn't here…she'd be too embarrassed, I think."

"Why is that?"

"It's a little complicated," Harry explained. "So, from what she told me, Roger…you and she used to recite Python lines around the dinner table, and launch into bits of dialogue at odd and appropriate times?"

"Oh God, yes," Emily said with exasperation.

"Right," said Harry. "So when Hermione and I did the same thing as we shared some food in front of the fire, out there in the forest, when everything seemed hopeless…it was a way to connect to you two. A way to link back to when she did the same thing with her dad, during happier and simpler times. It really helped."

Tears threatened to spill from Roger's eyes.

"Oh, shit," he whispered. "Emily, give that boy a hug before I get all nancy-boyish and do it myself!"

His wife didn't need any encouragement to comply with that request.

"Oh, Harry," she gently chided, as she pulled his head towards her and pressed her cheek against his. "That's such a lovely image."

The raven-haired teen nodded into Emily's hair, both as a way to express agreement and as a way to wipe incipient tears away from _his _eyes.

"But why would Hermione be embarrassed about hearing that?" her mum asked.

"Well, maybe it's no longer an issue," Harry explained. "But at the time, I think that the sketches making her think of her parents made her feel guilty because she thought she had memory charmed you and made you forget about her."

"If that's the case, then you're right about it not mattering anymore," said Roger, as his wife broke the embrace and returned to her seat. "So what's all this about annoying the enemy?"

The question instantly brightened Harry's mood.

"Ron wasn't the only wizard who didn't appreciate the humor," he explained with a dark smile.

Harry then risked Hermione's ire and jumped the gun by providing the briefest of descriptions of soul pieces, and (more specifically) the piece that had been residing within the locket. The existence of horcruxes was far more horrific than the idea of a fractured soul piece negatively influencing a necklace-wearer's mood. And learning that Hermione and Harry had used the soul piece's hatred of Python humor against it, and successfully kept its power in check with lumberjack songs, and lisping Pilates, and wink-wink-nudge-nudge-say-no-more's, provided scant comfort.

"Damn," Roger eventually muttered, as he shook his head and looked down at his empty glass. "The idea that you can split your soul with a cold-blooded murder…and put that split piece into an object that tethers you to the living world as a form of immortality…hell, the magical proof that we really do have souls…."

Harry nodded solemnly, then tried to lighten the mood a bit by asking, "Yes, makes you think, doesn't it?"

Roger immediately lifted his eyes and caught Harry's gaze. When the teenager winked, he smiled, and said, "Exactly! I mean…what's it all about?"

Emily glanced at her husband, and then at Harry. With a sigh of resignation, she stood, and muttered, "Beats me."

Shen then escaped to the kitchen and opened another bottle of wine, as the two men followed her cue, adopted outrageous French accents, and burst into song…

_Why are we here? What's life all about?  
>Is God really real? Or is there some doubt?<br>Well tonight, we are going to sort it all out.  
>For this, is the Meaning of Life!<em>

**oo00OO00oo**

Down the hallway, Hermione Granger couldn't hear the singing from behind the spell-silenced bedroom door. She would later express disappointment at not being there to join along, and would relate to both Harry and her parents an event that gave her reason to reconsider the power of divination and/or coincidence.

As best as she could estimate, Hermione had just started in on her revision of the self-addressed letter when her father and best friend launched into a full-throated inquiry on the meaning of life. And at that same moment, for no particular reason, a distracting thought had given her pause…

Just how relevant was Monty Python to the latest chapter in her life, and (specifically) to their present circumstances within a magical Australia that had been ravaged by the effects of Billabong Bollocks?

Hermione smiled, and began singing a different song from that same movie's soundtrack.

"_Let the heathens spill theirs on the dusty ground…God will punish those for each sperm that can't be found…"_

**oo00OO00oo**

Roger Granger followed up the end of the song and the subsequent high-five hand slap by adopting a very deep-sounding voice.

**"Chapter one…the miracle of birth!"**

Harry grinned, and mimicked an expensive piece of medical equipment.

**"Bing!"**

Emily walked back from the kitchen and mixed up the stemware some more by pouring a dry Australian white into her husband's champagne glass.

"Stop that, you're getting too silly!" she declared.

"Quite right, sergeant major!" her husband quipped, as he raised his glass and saluted her.

"God, we're never going to hear what happened at this rate," Emily whined.

"Shall I fetch Hermione, then?" Harry asked.

"How long is it?" Roger joked.

Emily lifted a sofa cushion and whacked her husband on the side of the head.

"Enough!" she insisted.

"Long enough?" Roger asked. "Well, after all these years, that's nice to hear."

Hermione's father staved off another pillow attack with a quick apology.

"What do you think, Harry?" Emily asked. "You probably know her better than we do at this point."

The raven-haired teen shrugged. "That letter probably describes what happened during the time covered by the memory loss," he reasoned. "Since you were there for most all of it, you'd know better than me whether anything earth-shattering or paradigm-shifting took place."

Hermione's parents shared a quick glance and even quicker wordless conversation.

"It was the best of times, and it was the worst of times," Emily declared.

Hermione's mum frowned when she failed to spot any recognition of the literary reference within Harry's eyes.

"You haven't read _A Tale of Two Cities_?" she asked.

The teenager winced a bit in embarrassment and shook his head.

"Sorry," he apologized. "Above grade level at primary, and not something that's taught at Hogwarts."

"No, no, it's not your fault, I'm certain," Emily quickly replied.

"Actually," Harry countered, "my Aunt and Uncle did have the collected works sitting proudly on display on the sitting room bookshelf. Of course, they never actually read the books, and I would have been hided if they'd caught me breaking in the spines..."

"Troglodytes!" Roger hissed.

Emily nodded in agreement. "Strange world, when a bright kid like you can more readily quote Graham Chapman than Charles Dickens."

"Strange world?" Roger asked. "Sounds like utopia to me."

"Yes, well…should anyone be surprised by that?" his wife asked. "Why don't we just get Hermione's attention and ask her if she needs more time to herself. You two would have no shortage of penguins to watch on the telly if she does."

"Splendid idea," Roger agreed. "So how do we go about gaining our daughter's attention?"

"There's a few options," said Harry. "The most direct route would be for me to simply apparate into the bedroom, but that's frowned upon in polite magical company, and you run the risk of popping in at an embarrassing moment."

"Speaking from experience, perhaps?" Emily asked, thinking back to her tenth question on Hermione's survey.

"Not personally, but I've seen it happen," said Harry. "One time, one of Ron's brothers apparated unexpectedly into a room, and caught their sister picking her nose."

"Could have been worse, I suppose."

"Not much worse if you're talking about Ginny's revenge," Harry noted. "There's something else that's not nearly as dangerous, but I'm still working on getting the spell down, so…"

"That's okay, we can wait," said Roger.

"No, it's not a problem…just didn't want to get your hopes up."

Harry then drew his wand from his sleeve and stretched his arm out to his side, causing Roger and Emily to reflexively take a few steps backwards.

"No worries," the teenager said with a smile, as he walked over to the part of the living area that looked down the hallway. He took a deep breath, gathered his intent, then threw his wand back as if he were about to crack a whip.

A silent, dramatic thrust launched a pint-sized version of his stag Patronus out from the wand tip. The iridescent conjuration leapt down onto the polished hardwood floor and skidded into an uncontrolled spin that left it facing the wrong direction.

"Oooh, he's so cute!" Emily squealed.

Harry sighed in frustration and shook his head. Crouching down, closer to eye level with the stag, he tried to shoo the messenger towards its destination.

"Go on, then!" the wizard whined.

The stag glanced back over its shoulder towards the bedroom door and nodded his antlered head. Turning completely towards the target, the Patronus reared backwards, lifting his front two legs up off the hardwood floor. Then he brought his hoofs down with a tinny-sounding crash, lowered his head, and galloped down the hallway. The relative lengths of the hall and the stag's stride allowed the Patronus to build up a fair amount of speed…which made the head-on crash into Hermione's privacy wards all the more spectacular.

"Damn," Harry muttered, as he walked down the hall and patted the dazed and confused messenger on the antlers. "Sorry about that, Jag…we'll get right the next time."

The pint-sized stag bowed towards his spell-caster as the _Finite_ spell was cast.

"Jag?" Emily asked.

"Hermione named him," Harry replied with a slight smile. "Jag the Stag."

"There's that alliteration again," Emily whined.

Roger chuckled. "Higher DefCon than you thought, Harry?" he asked.

"No, that should have worked even at DefCon1…just need more practice, I guess," the teenager admitted. He rose up off his haunches and added, "Professor McGonagal taught it to us a few weeks ago, right after the Final Battle."

The frown on Harry's face led Emily to walk over and place a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Must be difficult to think back to that day?"

The question drew Harry out of his thousand-yard stare. "What?" he asked. "Oh, yeah, it is. But I was actually thinking how useful that spell would have been over the past year."

"Is it something that you would have learned, had you stayed in school?"

"No, it was something that Dumbledore invented, and only taught to members of his Order," Harry replied. He growled under his breath, shook his head, and added, "He must have thought the deluminator was good enough for us."

"What's that?"

"A deluminator…it's a universal light switch that doubles as a crack-pot match-making tracking device," Harry snarked.

"Sounds like there's a story behind that description," Roger chuckled.

"Yeah, but…one of those stories better told with Hermione's help, and flask of whisky or calming potion on hand," Harry replied. "So on to Plan B, then."

"A different messenger spell?" Emily asked.

Harry shook his head and offered a sheepish smile. "No, but at DefCon3...something far less showy, but far more reliable," he confessed. The teenager looked around the living area and then asked, "Do you have a pen and paper?"

**oo00OO00oo**

Hermione was making good progress in her clarifying revision of the self-addressed letter when she spotted the folded piece of paper that someone had pushed under the bedroom door. She dropped her pen onto the bedspread, rolled off the bed, and retrieved the handwritten message.

_[[[[[[[[[[[[  
><em>

_Hey Hermione - _

_Ron is passed out on the porch right now. No rush on you joining the rest of us, but your mum says that if you don't emerge within the next half-hour, she's going to nip any more Python routines in the bud by breaking out the baby pictures._

_So by all means, take your time (grin)._

_Anxiously waiting (either to see you, or to see your baby pics…I win either way!)_

_Harry_

_]]]]]]]]]]]_

**oo00OO00oo**

Harry had just come back from checking his spell-silenced friend on the porch when an iridescent otter sprung out of the middle of the front bedroom's door and scampered down the hallway. Hermione's Patronus lept onto a kitchen chair, then bounced up onto the table and over onto the kitchen counter, which finally gave her the required altitude to jump onto Harry's shoulder.

"Hey there, Ally," the teen-aged wizard said, as the otter lifted herself up off of her front paws and wrapped her long tail around Harry's neck.

Emily asked, "Is that Hermione's…"

"Successful use of the messenger spell?" Harry asked. "Yes, it is."

Fulfilling her role as messenger, the otter leaned over towards Harry's ear…and bit down on its lobe.

"Ow!" the teen-aged wizard winced.

"What happened?" Roger asked.

"Ally just delivered part of her message," Harry explained, as he blocked any further message attacks by covering his ear. "Hermione evidently didn't appreciate the baby picture threat."

"And you actually could feel that love bite?" Emily asked.

"What?" Harry asked, momentarily caught off-guard by both the reference to love and Ally's head butts against his hand. "Oh, right...yes, yes I can."

"Well that's one way of delivering a message," Roger said.

Harry shrugged. "Ally's usually a lot more affectionate," he explained. "And it's not like Hedwig wouldn't do the same when she was annoyed with me."

Hermione's parents let the reference to his familiar pass when Harry moved his hand away and allowed the otter Patronus to whisper into his ear.

"Ah…is that so?" he asked.

(whispering)

"She really wants me to…?"

(more whispering)

"Well okay, then," Harry decided. "Don't suppose you could carry a return message?"

The otter stood up on her hind legs and rolled her iridescent eyes.

"Worth a shot," Harry argued.

The Patronus dropped back down onto all fours and nuzzled her nose against Harry's cheek, just before she disappeared.

"What a remarkable spell!" Emily declared.

"Yeah, it is, isn't it?" Harry said, with pride in his voice. "I've seen a couple of other messenger spells get delivered, and they're not nearly that animated or expressive."

A shared smile passed between Hermione's father and mother as Harry shared part of Ally's message with them.

"She'll be out in a few minutes," he stated. "And she's threatening mutual assured embarrassment if you break out the baby pictures without her being here."

"She does, does she?" Emily challenged.

Harry smiled, and nodded his head. "I was told that the applicable key word here is '_Hitachi_'."

"Ha!" Roger laughed out loud, enjoying the sight of his wife's reddening cheeks.

Harry turned towards Hermione's mum and innocently asked, "So you use a Hitachi, huh?"

"That's not the kind of question you ask in polite company," Emily gently chided.

"Oh, sorry about that," said Harry. "I didn't think it was a big deal, since I use one as well."

"You do what?"

"I use a Hitachi."

"Harry, that's also not exactly something that you'd want to openly admit," Roger noted.

The raven-haired teen turned towards Hermione's father and risked a quick wink.

"Why not?" Harry asked innocently.

"You…you really own a Hitachi?" Roger asked.

"Well, it wasn't actually mine," said Harry. "My Aunt bought it."

"You…used…your…_Aunt's_…Hitachi?" Emily gasped.

Hermione's mum closed her eyes so that she could rub the outsides of her eyelids with her fingertips. This gave Harry the chance to shoot another wink and a rakish grin in her husband's direction. He then mouthed a two-word message. Picking up on this signal, Roger mouthed back the two-word message for confirmation, then smiled…which gave Harry the necessary confidence to continue on.

"Yeah, I used the Hitachi all the time," Harry admitted, using a matter-of-fact tone of voice.

Now knowing that he was playing the straight man's role, Roger eagerly asked, "All the time, you say?"

"Well, not every single day, of course," Harry said with a shrug. "Maybe two or three times a week…hey Mrs. G, how often so you use your Hitachi?"

"Erm….."

"Oh, sorry. Is that another one of those impolite questions?"

"So…when did you use your Aunt's Hitachi?" Roger asked.

"Well, I always used it just before dinner time," said Harry. He turned towards Hermione's mum and asked, "When do you use your Hitachi, Emily?"

"Erm…."

Roger asked, "Your Aunt…she wasn't with you while you were using this Hitachi, was she?"

"Only at first," Harry admitted. "She looked over my shoulder until she was certain that I was doing it right."

"Oh, Jeesus," Emily muttered. In a louder voice, she risked asking, "So where did this take place?"

"Why in the kitchen, of course," Hermione called out, as she entered the living area.

Crossing over to the overstuffed chair with a wide smile on her face, she sat down on Harry's lap and asked, "Isn't that where you cook rice, Mum?"

"Cook the rice?" Emily asked sharply.

"Yeah…cook the rice," Harry repeated. He smiled widely and innocently asked, "We were talking about Hitachi rice cookers…right?"

"I'm sure you were, Harry," Hermione replied. "Unless my mother has some other use for a Hitachi appliance?"

Emily quickly shook her head. "Nope. Hitachi rice cooker…wonderful kitchen appliance."

"Thought so," Hermione replied, nodding her head.

"Right, well…if you'll excuse me for a few moments?" Emily asked, before escaping behind the bathroom door.

Roger tried to combine a stern look of disapproval with an appreciative chuckle and failed miserably.

"Good job, Harry," Hermione said, as she leaned forward and showed her appreciation with a chaste kiss on his cheek.

"Erm…no worries…I hope," Harry said nervously. "That's what you wanted Ally to tell me, right?"

"Absolutely."

"I thought that the threatened embarrassment was dependent on the baby pictures?" Roger asked.

Hermione shook her head. "Oh, no…that was just an attempt to even the score from earlier in the day," she explained. "How did I do?"

Roger shook his head and sighed. "I think that, with Harry's help, that you're now ahead of the game."

"Excellent," Hermione said brightly.

Harry asked, "So not that you have to tell us anything about the letter, but…"

"Oh, there's lots to talk about," Hermione replied. "But we probably ought to wait until Mum returns."

"Fair enough," said Harry. "So in the meantime…"

Roger provided the definitive answer to that question by popping up off the couch and walking over to his prized collection of DVDs.

It was time for Harry to attach faces to the Flying Circus.

**oo00OO00oo**

A/N: The author story openly admits to frequently using a twenty-five year-old Hitachi "Chime-o-Matic" rice cooker.


End file.

Harry Potter, Humor, Romance